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IVAN   TURGENIEFF 


Volume  XI 


}0i  THE  DIARY  OF  A 
SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 
AND  OTHER  STORIES 


THE  NOVELS  AND  STORIES  OF 
IVAN   TURGKMEFF 

«THE  DIARY  OF  A 
SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 
AND  OTHER  STORIES 


TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    RUSSLAN    BY 
ISABEL  F.  HAPGOOD 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1904 


/  cried  out  with  rapture,  and  immediately  turned  to  Liza. 
From  a  drawing  by  FLETCHER  C.  RANSOM. 


THE  NOVELS  AND  STORIES  OF 
IVAN    TURGENIEFF 

*THE  DIARY  OF  A 
SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 
AND  OTHER  STORIES 


TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    RUSSIAN    BY 
ISABEL  F.  HAPGOOD 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1904 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


PREFACE 

"  In  '  The  Diary  of  a  Superfluous  Man,'  "  says 
one  well-known  Russian  critic,  "  we  have  to  deal 
with  the  end  of  the  pathological  process  upon  the 
body  of  Russian  society.  In  TurgeniefF's  pro- 
ductions which  followed  it  we  have  to  deal  with  a 
crisis  in  Russian  life,  with  the  growth  of  a  new 
order  of  things.  Apart  from  the  fundamental 
profundity  of  its  tendency,  the  '  Diary '  is  ex- 
tremely noteworthy  for  its  artistic  workmanship. 
In  spite  of  a  certain  monotony  of  tone  in  its  expo- 
sition, it  produces  a  very  strong  impression  by  its 
abundance  of  poetical  beauties,  which  are  per- 
fectly suited  to  the  melancholy  mood  of  the  whole 
story.  .  .  In  creating  his  '  Superfluous  Man '  the 
author,  evidently,  aimed  at  making  as  powerful 
an  impression  as  possible,  and  therefore  employed 
the  most  brilliant  pigments  in  depicting  Tchul- 
katurin.  He  attained  his  object.  Russian  society 
started  back  in  horror  at  this  portrait  of  itself, 
which  was  somewhat  distorted  yet  a  good  likeness, 
and  in  its  strong  excitement  vigorously  repelled 
all  community  with  the  sickly  figure  of,  Tchulka- 
turin.  This  horror  showed  that  the  time  was  ripe 
in  Russian  society  for  a  different  order  of  things, 


PREFACE 

that  it  was  tired  of  inertness  and  was  seeking  a 
wider  field  of  activity  in  which  it  might  freely  de- 
velop its  real  forces." 

Another  critic,  comparing  the  "  Diary  "  with 
"  Hamlet  of  Shshtchigry  County,"  says  that 
what  the  latter  expressed  with  a  convulsive  laugh 
Tchulkatiirin  gave  vent  to  in  sickly,  complaining 
shrieks,  both  productions  being  a  bitter  confes- 
sion of  moral  impotence,  of  mental  insolvency. 
"  There  is  one  passage  in  the  '  Diary,'  "  he  says, 
"  which— especially  if  one  comes  upon  it  after 
perusing  all  that  precedes  it— it  is  impossible  to 
read  without  a  strong  nervous  shock,  if  not  with- 
out tears — a  passage  which  always  has  the  same 
identical  effect;  and  it  contains  the  key  to  the 
comprehension  of  Turgenieff 's  relations  toward 
Nature.  It  is  the  end  of  the  '  Diary.'  This  pas- 
sage is  noteworthy.  The  predominant  character- 
istic of  TurgeniefF's  talent  is  here  revealed  in  a 
particularly  brilliant  manner:  a  profound  im- 
pregnation with  Nature,— an  impregnation  which 
reached  the  point  almost  of  fusion  with  it.  The 
breath  of  spring  blows  upon  the  reader,  there  is 
a  scent  of  the  upturned  soil,— and  nowhere  else, 
possibly  save  in  that  chapter  of  Tolstoy's  '  Youth,' 
which  describes  the  removal  of  the  double  win- 
dows, and  the  reader  is  suddenly  enveloped  in  the 
keen,  fresh  air  of  spring,  is  there  anji;hing  which 
can  be  compared  with  this  passage." 

Still  another  critic  says:  "  The  ironical  analysis 

vi 


PREFACE 

of  the  moral  feebleness  of  the  Russian  intellectual 
class,  which  constitutes  the  ruling  motive  of 
'  Hamlet  of  Shshtchigry  County,'  is  converted 
into  sickly  complaint  in  '  The  Diary  of  a  Super- 
fluous Man,'  one  of  the  most  original  and  best- 
sustained  of  TurgeniefF's  stories,  and  one  which 
is  most  profoundly  imbued  with  feeling. 

"  Turgeniefl"s  story  '  Three  Portraits,'  "  said 
the  most  famous  of  Russian  critics,  Byelinsky, 
"  possesses,  in  addition  to  the  cleverness  and  vivid- 
ness of  its  presentation,  all  the  fascination,  not  of 
a  novel,  but  rather  of  a  reminiscence  of  the  good 
old  times.  A  fitting  motto  for  it  would  be: 
'  Deeds  of  days  gone  by.'  " 

All  the  critics  admit  that  the  type  of  Vasfly 
Lutchinofl"  had  existed,  and  one  says:  "  I  attrib- 
ute special  importance  to  Turgeniefl"s  Vasily 
Lutchinoff"  because,  in  this  character,  the  old  type 
of  Don  Juan,  of  Lovelace,  and  so  forth,  assumed 
our  own  Russian,  original  form  for  the  first  time." 
This  type  (equally  rapacious  with  that  presented 
by  the  hero  of  "  The  Bully,"  which  was  written 
about  the  same  time)  is  supposed  to  have  pre- 
vailed in  the  eighteenth  century,  especially  in  the 
epoch  of  Katherine  II.  Although  Turgenieif 
never  wrote  historical  novels,  this  story,  in  com- 
pany with  passages  from  others  of  his  works,  is 
regarded  as  coming,  practically,  under  the  head 
of  historical  records  faithful  to  the  epochs  dealt 
with  by  the  author. 

vii 


PREFACE 

"  The  story  '  Three  Meetings,' "  says  one 
critic,  "  belongs  entirely  in  the  category  of  '  art 
for  art's  sake.'  There  can  be  no  question  here  of 
any  guiding  idea.  To  speak  figuratively,  it  is  a 
fragrant  flower,  whose  perfume  one  inhales  with 
delight,  but  which  presents  no  other  essential 
qualities.  Its  whole  point  lies  in  its  workmanship, 
and  in  paraphrase  it  loses  its  entire  charm." 

"  This  story,"  writes  another  critic,  "  may 
serve,  in  our  opinion,  as  a  curious  monument  of 
the  ineptness  of  narrations  in  the  first  person. 
TurgeniefF,  who  is  such  a  complete  master  of  the 
form  of  personal  narration,  was  bound  to  exhibit 
also  the  weak  side  of  it  in  its  entirety.  This  has 
strutted  forth  in  his  '  Three  Meetings  '  with  such 
pride,  independence,  and,  in  a  measure,  with  so 
much  coquetry,  that  it  has  swallowed  up  its  sub- 
ject-matter. There  are  several  brilliant  pages  in 
the  story,  but  its  fantastic,  showy  matter  seems  to 
be  directed  solely  to  the  end  of  illuminating  the 
person  of  the  narrator  in  the  most  advantageous 
manner." 

In  discussing  "  The  Memoirs  of  a  Sportsman," 
a  leading  critic  of  the  present  day  says:  .  .  . 
"  Another  peculiarity  which  immediately  won  for 
him  [Turgenieff  ]  fame  and  sympathy  among  the 
public,  is  his  entirely  new  manner  of  depicting 
figures  from  peasant  life.  Before  the  advent  of 
Turgenieff  the  populace,  even  in  the  hands  of 
Pushkin,  even  in  those  of  Gogol,  appeared  either 

viii 


PREFACE 

in  the  capacity  of  an  operatic  chorus,  or  in  the 
quaHty  of  peasants  of  the  hallet,  or  as  an  acces- 
sory, comic  figure.  Turgenieff  was  the  first  to 
look  into  the  soul  of  the  common  people  and 
demonstrate  that  that  soul  was  exactly  like  the 
soul  of  the  cultivated  man,  only  with  its  own  pe- 
culiar turn  to  conceptions  and  feelings.  By  thus 
bringing  the  peasant  close  to  us,  by  exhibiting 
him  in  this  form,  as  a  being  one  with  us  in  blood, 
with  whom,  therefore,  one  can  sympathise  in- 
stead of  regarding  him  merely  as  a  rare  spectacle, 
Turgenieff  deservedly  earned  the  reputation  of 

a  champion  of  emancipation Two  other 

tales  are  closely  allied  to  '  The  Memoirs  of  a 
Sportsman,'  although  they  do  not  form  a  part  of 
that  collection :  '  Mumu '  and  '  The  Inn.'  .  .  . 
One  of  them,  '  Mumu,'  is,  perhaps,  the  most  elo- 
quent denunciation  of  serfdom  which  ever  pro- 
ceeded from  Turgenieff 's  pen.  It  is  the  only  one 
of  his  productions  in  which  the  central  figure  of 
the  pig-headed  ^  landed-proprietress  is  delineated 
with  vivid  and  unconcealed  hatred.  But  in  this 
case  also,  the  chief  merit  of  the  story  does  not  lie 
in  this  arraignment,— in  which  are  probably  re- 
flected the  author's  childish  reminiscences,^— but 
in  its  warm,  compassionate  sympathy  for  the  lot 

^The  word  used  is,  literally,  "self-fool."  It  was  invented  by 
Ostrovsky,  in  one  of  his  most  famous  comedies.— Translator. 

2  Some  authorities  assert  positively  that  the  incident  narrated  oc- 
curred in  the  Turgenieff  household,  and  that  Gerasim's  mistress  was 
the  author's  own  mother.  — Translator. 

ix 


PREFACE 

of  the  poor  dumb  man,  whose  whole  life  was  con- 
centrated in  love  for  a  creature  equally  ill-treated 
by  Fate — for  the  little  dog  he  had  reared.  In 
'  The  Inn,'  also,  serfdom  is  set  forth  in  an  ex- 
treme and  hateful  light.  But  here  again  the  chief 
gist  of  the  author's  idea  does  not  lie  in  that  di- 
rection  It    is    evident   that   here    Tur- 

geniefF  has  touched  on  the  theme  to  which  Dos- 
toievsky was  so  fond  of  reverting.  That  theme 
is — the  accidental  sin  of  a  good  and  honest  man, 
the  crime  of  a  pure  mind  atoned  for  by  voluntary 
renunciation,  and  the  reconciling  power  of  repent- 
ance, humility  and  prayer.  Evil  remains  unpun- 
ished in  Turgenieff 's  story And  yet  the 

story  produces  a  shattering  moral  effect,  thanks 
to  the  humble  grandeur  of  Akim's  figure,  and  its 
combination  of  meekness  and  criminality.  Mean 
as  Naum  is  in  his  triumph,  repulsive  as  is  landed- 
proprietress  Elizaveta  Prokhorovna  with  her 
cowardly  and  hypocritical  greed,  the  story  leaves 
on  the  reader  a  soothing  impression." 

I.  F.  H. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE   DIARY    OF    A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN    .     .  1 

THREE    PORTRAITS 93 

THREE   MEETINGS 147 

MUMU 201 

THE    INN    .....,,.. 265 


THE  DIARY 
OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

(1850) 


THE  DIARY 
OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

Hamlet  of  Ovetchi-Vody,* 
March  20,  18     . 

THE  doctor  has  just  left  me.  At  last  I 
have  obtained  a  categorical  answer !  Dodge 
as  he  might,  he  could  not  help  saying  what  he 
thought,  at  last.  Yes,  I  shall  die  soon,  very  soon. 
The  streams  are  opening,  and  I  shall  float  away, 
probably  with  the  last  snows  ....  whither? 
God  knows!  To  the  sea  also.  Well,  all  right! 
If  I  must  die,  then  't  is  better  to  die  in  the  spring. 
But  is  it  not  ridiculous  to  begin  one's  diary  per- 
haps a  fortnight  before  one's  death?  Where  's 
the  harm?  And  in  what  way  are  fourteen  days 
less  than  fourteen  years,  fourteen  centuries?  In 
the  presence  of  eternity,  they  say,  everything  is 
of  no  account — yes;  but,  in  that  case,  eternity 
also  is  of  no  account.  I  am  falling  into  specu- 
lation, I  think:  that  is  a  bad  sign— am  not  I  be- 
ginning to  turn  coward? — It  will  be  better  if  I 
narrate  something.  It  is  raw  and  windy  out  of 
doors, — I  am  forbidden  to  go  out.  But  what 
shall  I  narrate?    A  well-bred  man  does  not  talk 

*  Sheep' s-Water8  or  Springs.  —Translator. 

3 


THE  DIARY  OF 

about  his  maladies;  composing  a  novel,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort,  is  not  in  my  line;  reflections 
about  exalted  themes  are  beyond  my  powers; 
descriptions  of  life  round  about  me  do  not  even 
interest  me;  and  to  do  nothing  is  tiresome;  to 
read — is  idleness.  Eh!  I  will  narrate  to  myself 
the  story  of  my  own  life.  A  capital  idea !  When 
death  is  approaching  it  is  proper,  and  can  of- 
fend no  one.    I  begin. 

I  was  born  thirty  years  ago,  the  son  of  a 
fairly  wealthy  landed  proprietor.  My  father 
was  a  passionate  gambler ;  my  mother  was  a  lady 
Avith  character  ....  a  very  virtuous  lady. 
Only,  I  have  never  known  a  woman  whose  virtue 
afforded  less  satisfaction.  She  succumbed  under 
the  burden  of  her  merits,  and  tortured  everybody, 
beginning  with  herself.  During  the  whole  fifty 
years  of  her  Hfe,  she  never  once  rested,  never 
folded  her  hands ;  she  was  eternally  busthng  and 
fussing  about,  like  an  ant — and  without  any  re- 
sult whatever,  which  cannot  be  said  of  the  ant. 
An  implacable  worm  gnawed  her  day  and  night. 
Only  once  did  I  behold  her  perfectly  quiet, — 
namely,  on  the  first  day  after  her  death,  in  her 
coffin.  As  I  gazed  at  her,  it  really  seemed  to  me 
that  her  face  expressed  mild  surprise;  the  half- 
open  lips,  the  sunken  cheeks,  and  the  gently-mo- 
tionless eyes  seemed  to  breathe  forth  the  words: 
"  How  good  it  is  not  to  stir! "  Yes,  't  is  good, 
't  is  good  to  part  at  last  from  the  fatiguing  con- 

4 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

sciousness  of  life,  from  the  importunate  and  un- 
easy sense  of  existence!  But  that  is  not  the 
point. 

I  grew  up  badly,  and  not  cheerfully.  Both 
my  father  and  my  mother  loved  me ;  but  that  did 
not  make  things  any  the  easier  for  me.  My 
father  had  no  power  whatever  in  his  own  house, 
and  no  importance,  in  his  quality  of  a  man 
given  over  to  a  shameful  and  ruinous  vice.  He 
admitted  his  fall,  and,  without  having  the 
strength  to  renounce  his  favourite  passion,  he 
endeavoured,  at  least,  by  his  constantly  affec- 
tionate and  discreet  mien,  by  his  submissive  hu- 
mility, to  win  the  indulgence  of  his  exemplary 
wife.  My  mamma,  in  fact,  bore  her  misfortune 
with  that  magnificent  and  ostentatious  long-suf- 
fering of  virtue  which  contains  so  much  of  self- 
satisfied  pride.  She  never  reproached  my  fa- 
ther for  anything,  she  silently  surrendered  to 
him  her  last  penny,  and  paid  his  debts ;  he  lauded 
her  to  her  face  and  behind  her  back,  but  was  not 
fond  of  staying  at  home,  and  petted  me  on  the 
sly,  as  though  he  were  himself  afraid  of  con- 
taminating me  by  his  presence.  But  his  ruffled 
features  exhaled  such  kindness  at  those  times, 
the  feverish  smirk  on  his  lips  was  replaced  by 
such  a  touching  smile,  his  brown  eyes,  surrounded 
by  fine  wrinkles,  beamed  with  so  much  love,  that  I 
involuntarily  pressed  my  cheek  to  his  cheek,  moist 
and  warm  with  tears.    I  wiped  away  those  tears 

5 


THE  DIARY  OF 

with  my  handkerchief,  and  they  flowed  again, 
without  eff'ort,  Hke  the  water  in  an  overfilled 
glass.  I  set  to  crying  myself,  and  he  soothed  me, 
patted  my  back  with  his  hand,  kissed  me  all  over 
my  face  with  his  quivering  lips.  Even  now, 
more  than  twenty  years  after  his  death,  when  I 
recall  my  poor  father,  dumb  sobs  rise  in  my 
throat,  and  my  heart  beats— beats  as  hotly  and 
bitterly,  it  languishes  with  as  much  sorrowful 
compassion,  as  though  it  still  had  a  long  time  to 
beat  and  as  though  there  were  anything  to  feel 
compassion  about! 

My  mother,  on  the  contrarj^  always  treated 
me  in  one  way,  affectionately,  but  coldly.  Such 
mothers,  moral  and  just,  are  frequently  to  be  met 
with  in  children's  books.  She  loved  me,  but  I 
did  not  love  her.  Yes!  I  shunned  my  virtuous 
mother,  and  passionately  loved  my  vicious  father. 

But  enough  for  to-day.  I  have  made  a  begin- 
ning, and  there  is  no  cause  for  me  to  feel  anxious 
about  the  end,  whatever  it  may  be.  My  malady 
will  attend  to  that. 

March  21. 
The  weather  is  wonderful  to-day.  It  is  warm 
and  bright ;  the  sun  is  playing  gaily  on  the  slushy 
snow;  everything  is  glittering,  smoking,  drip- 
ping; the  sparrows  are  screaming  like  mad  crea- 
tures around  the  dark,  sweating  hedges;  the 
damp  air  irritates  my  chest  sweetly  but  fright- 

6 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

fully.  The  spring,  the  spring  is  coming!  I  am 
sitting  by  the  window,  and  looking  out  across 
the  little  river  to  the  fields.  О  Nature!  Nature! 
I  love  thee  so,  but  I  came  forth  from  thy  womb 
unfitted  even  for  life.  Yonder  is  a  male  sparrow 
hopping  about  with  outspread  wings;  he  is 
screaming — and  every  sound  of  his  voice,  every 
ruffled  feather  on  his  tiny  body  breathes  forth 
health  and  strength. 

What  is  to  be  concluded  from  that?  Nothing. 
He  is  healthy  and  has  a  right  to  scream  and  ruf- 
fle up  his  feathers;  but  I  am  ill  and  must  die— 
that  is  all.  It  is  not  Avorth  while  to  sa)^  any  more 
about  that.  And  tearful  appeals  to  nature  are 
comically  absurd.    Let  us  return  to  my  story. 

I  grew  up,  as  I  have  already  said,  badly  and 
not  cheerfully.  I  had  no  brothers  or  sisters.  I 
was  educated  at  home.  And,  indeed,  what  would 
my  mother  have  had  to  occupj^  her  if  I  had  been 
sent  off  to  boarding-school  or  to  a  government 
institute?  That  's  what  children  are  for — to 
keep  their  parents  from  being  bored.  We  lived 
chiefly  in  the  country,  and  sometimes  went  to 
Moscow.  I  had  governors  and  teachers,  as  is 
the  custom.  A  cadaverous  and  tearful  German, 
Riechmann,  has  remained  particularly  memorable 
to  me, — a  remarkably  melancholy  being,  crip- 
pled by  fate,  w  ho  was  fruitlessly  consumed  by  an 
anguished  longing  for  his  native  land.  My  man- 
nurse,  Vasily,  nicknamed  *'  The  Goose,"  would 

7 


THE  DIARY  OF 

sit,  unshaved,  in  his  everlasting  old  coat  of  blue 
frieze,  beside  the  stove  in  the  frightfully  sti- 
fling atmosphere  of  the  close  anteroom,  impreg- 
nated through  and  through  with  the  sour  odour 
of  old  kvas, — would  sit  and  play  cards  with  the 
coachman,  Potap,  who  had  just  got  a  new  sheep- 
skin coat,  лvhite  as  snow,  and  invincible  tarred 
boots, — while  Riechmann  would  be  singing  on  the 
other  side  of  the  partition : 

"Herz,  mein  Herz,  warum  so  traurig? 
Was  bekiimmert  dich  so  sehr? 
'S  ist  ja  schon  im  fremden  Lande — 
Herz,  mein  Herz,  was  willst  du  mehr?  " 

After  my  father's  death,  we  definitively  re- 
moved to  Moscow.  I  was  then  twelve  years  of 
age.  My  father  died  during  the  night  of  a  stroke 
of  apoplexy.  I  shall  never  forget  that  night. 
I  was  sleeping  soundly,  as  all  children  are  in 
the  habit  of  sleeping;  but  I  remember,  that  even 
athwart  my  slumber  I  thought  I  heard  a  heavy, 
laboured  breathing.  Suddenly  I  felt  some  one 
seize  me  bj''  the  shoulder  and  shake  me.  I  open 
my  eyes:  in  front  of  me  stands  my  man-nurse. 
— "  What  's  the  matter?  "— "  Come  along,  come 
along,  Alexyei  Mikhailitch  is  dying.  .  .  ."  I  fly 
out  of  the  bed  like  a  mad  creature,  and  into  the 
bedroom.  I  look:  my  father  is  lying  with  his 
head  thrown  back,  all  red  in  the  face,  and  rat- 
tling in  his  throat  most  painfully.    The  servants, 

8 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

with  frightened  faces,  throng  the  doors;  in  the 
anteroom  some  one  inquires  in  a  hoarse  voice: 
"  Has  the  doctor  been  sent  for?  "  In  the  court- 
yard, a  horse  is  being  led  out  of  the  stable,  the 
gate  is  creaking,  a  tallow  candle  is  burning  in 
the  room  on  the  floor ;  mamma  is  there  also,  over- 
whelmed, but  without  losing  either  her  decorum 
or  the  consciousness  of  her  own  dignity.  I  flung 
myself  on  my  father's  breast,  embraced  him, 
and  stammered  out:  "  Papa,  papa!  "...  He  lay 
motionless  and  puckered  up  his  eyes  in  a  strange 
sort  of  way.  I  looked  him  in  the  face — unbear- 
able horror  stopped  my  breath;  I  squeaked  with 
terror,  like  a  roughly-grasped  bird.  They 
dragged  me  from  him  and  carried  me  away. 
Only  the  night  before,  as  though  with  a  fore- 
boding of  his  approaching  death,  he  had  caressed 
me  so  fervently  and  so  sadly. 

They  brought  a  dishevelled  and  sleepy  doctor, 
with  a  strong  smell  of  lovage  vodka.  My  father 
died  under  his  lancet,  and  on  the  following 
day,  thoroughly  stupefied  with  grief,  I  stood 
with  a  candle  in  my  hand  in  front  of  the  table  on 
which  lay  the  corpse,  and  listened  unheeding  to 
the  thick-voiced  intoning  of  the  chanter,  occa- 
sionally broken  by  the  feeble  voice  of  the  priest; 
tears  kept  streaming  down  my  cheeks,  over  my 
lips,  and  my  collar  and  my  cuffs ;  I  was  consumed 
with  tears,  I  stared  fixedly  at  the  motionless  face 
of  my  father,  as  though  I  were  expecting  him  to 

9 


THE  DIARY  OF 

do  something ;  and  my  mother,  meanwhile,  slowly 
made  reverences  to  the  floor,  slowly  raised  her- 
self and,  as  she  crossed  herself,  pressed  her  fin- 
gers strongly  to  her  brow,  her  shoulders,  and  her 
body.  There  was  not  a  single  thought  in  my 
head ;  I  had  grown  heavy  all  over,  but  I  felt  that 
something  dreadful  was  taking  place  with  me. 
....  It  was  then  that  Death  looked  into  my 
face,  and  made  a  note  of  me. 

We  removed  our  residence  to  Moscow,  after  the 
death  of  my  father,  for  a  very  simple  reason :  all 
our  estate  was  sold  under  the  hammer  for  debt, 
— positively  everything,  лvith  the  exception  of 
one  wretched  little  hamlet,  the  very  one  in  which 
I  am  now  finishing  my  magnificent  existence.  I 
confess  that,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  was  young 
at  the  time,  I  grieved  over  the  sale  of  our  nest; 
that  is  to  say,  in  reality,  I  grieved  over  our  park 
only.  With  that  park  are  bound  up  my  sole 
bright  memories.  There,  on  one  tranquil  spring 
evening,  I  buried  my  best  friend,  an  old  dog 
Avith  a  bob  tail  and  crooked  paws — Trixie;  there, 
hiding  myself  in  the  tall  grass,  I  used  to  eat 
stolen  apples,  red,  sweet  Novgorod  apples ;  there, 
in  conclusion,  I  for  the  first  time  beheld  through 
the  bushes  of  ripe  raspberries,  Klaudia  the  maid, 
who,  despite  her  snub  nose,  and  her  habit  of 
laughing  in  her  kerchief,  aroused  in  me  such  a 
tender  passion  that  in  her  presence  I  hardly 
breathed,  felt  like  swooning,  and  was  stricken 

10 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

dumb.  But  one  day,  on  the  Bright  Sunday/ 
when  her  turn  came  to  kiss  my  lordly  hand,  I  all 
but  flung  myself  down  and  kissed  her  patched 
goatskin  shoes.  Great  heavens !  Can  it  be  twenty 
years  since  all  that  happened?  It  does  not  seem 
so  very  long  since  I  used  to  ride  my  shaggy, 
chestnut  horse  along  the  old  wattled  hedge  of  our 
park,  and,  rising  in  my  stirrups,  pluck  the  double- 
faced  leaves  of  the  poplars.  While  a  man  is 
living  he  is  not  conscious  of  his  own  life;  like  a 
sound,  it  becomes  intelligible  to  him  a  little  while 
afterward. 

Oh,  my  park !  Oh,  my  overgrown  paths  along 
the  little  pond!  Oh,  unhappy  little  spot  beneath 
the  decrepit  dam,  where  I  used  to  catch  min- 
nows and  gudgeons!  And  you,  ye  lofty  birch- 
trees,  with  long,  pendulous  branches,  from 
behind  which,  from  the  country  road,  the  mel- 
ancholy song  of  the  peasant  used  to  be  wafted, 
unevenly  broken  by  the  jolts  of  the  rough  cart — 
I  send  you  my  last  farewells!  .  .  .  As  I  part 
with  life  I  stretch  out  my  hands  to  you  alone. 
I  should  like  once  more  to  inhale  the  bitter  fresh- 
ness of  the  wormwood,  the  sweet  scent  of  the 
reaped  buckwheat  in  the  fields  of  my  natal  spot; 
I  should  like  once  more  to  hear  from  afar  the 
modest  jangling  of  the  cracked  bell  on  our 
parish  church ;  once  more  to  lie  in  the  cool  shadow 
beneath  the  oak-bush  on  the  slope  of  the  famil- 

1  Easter.— Translator. 
11 


THE  DIARY  OF 

iar  ravine;  once  more  to  follow  with  my  eyes  the 
moving  trace  of  the  wind,  as  it  flew  like  a  dark 
streak  over  the  golden  grass  of  our  meadow.  .  .  . 
Ekh,  to  what  end  is  all  this?  But  I  cannot 
go  on  to-day.    Until  to-morrow. 

March  22. 
To-day  it  is  cold  and  overcast  again.  Such  wea- 
ther is  far  more  suitable.  It  is  in  accord  with 
my  work.  Yesterday  quite  unseasonably  evoked 
in  me  a  multitude  of  unnecessary  feelings  and 
memories.  That  will  not  be  repeated.  Emo- 
tional effusions  are  like  liquorice-root:  when  you 
take  your  first  suck  at  it,  it  does  n't  seem  bad, 
but  it  leaves  a  very  bad  taste  in  your  mouth 
afterward.  I  will  simply  and  quietly  narrate 
the  story  of  my  life. 

So  then,  we  went  to  live  in  Moscow.  .  .  . 

But  it  just  occurs  to  me:  is  it  really  worth 
while  to  tell  the  story  of  my  life? 

No,  decidedly  it  is  not  worth  while.  .  .  .  My 
life  is  in  no  way  different  from  the  lives  of  a 
mass  of  other  people.  The  parental  home,  the 
university,  service  in  inferior  positions,  retire- 
ment, a  small  circle  of  acquaintances,  down- 
right poverty,  modest  pleasures,  humble  occupa- 
tions, moderate  desires — tell  me,  for  mercy's 
sake,  who  does  not  know  all  that?  And  I,  in 
particular,  shall  not  tell  the  story  of  my  life,  be- 

12 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

cause  I  am  writing  for  my  own  pleasure;  and  if 
my  past  presents  even  to  me  nothing  very  cheer- 
ful, nor  even  very  sorrowful,  that  means  that 
there  really  can  be  nothing  in  it  worthy  of  atten- 
tion. I  had  better  try  to  analyse  my  own  char- 
acter to  myself. 

What  sort  of  a  man  am  I  ?  .  .  .  Some  one  may 
remark  to  me  that  no  one  asks  about  that. — 
Agreed.  But,  you  see,  I  am  dying, — God  is  my 
witness,  I  am  dying,— and  really  before  death 
the  desire  to  know  what  sort  of  a  fellow  I  have 
been  is  pardonable,  I  think. 

After  having  thoroughly  pondered  this  im- 
portant question,  and  having,  moreover,  no  need 
to  express  myself  bitterly  on  my  own  score,  as  do 
people  who  are  strongly  convinced  of  their  mer- 
its, I  must  confess  one  thing:  I  have  been  an 
utterly  superfluous  man  in  this  world,  or,  if  you 
like  to  put  it  that  way,  an  utterly  useless  bird. 
And  I  intend  to  prove  that  to-morrow,  because 
to-day  I  am  coughing  like  an  aged  sheep,  and 
my  nurse,  Terentievna,  will  give  me  no  peace. 
"  Lie  down,  dear  little  father  mine,"  she  says, 
"  and  drink  your  tea."  ...  I  know  why  she 
worries  me:  she  wants  some  tea  herself!  Well! 
All  right !  Why  not  permit  the  poor  old  woman 
to  extract,  at  the  finish,  all  possible  profit  from 
her  master?  .  .  .  The  time  for  that  has  not  yet 
gone  by. 

13 


THE  DIARY  OF 

March  23. 
Winter  again.     The  snow  is  falling  in  large 
flakes. 

Superfluous,  superfluous.  .  .  .  That  's  a  capi- 
tal word  I  have  devised.  The  more  deeply  I 
penetrate  into  myself,  the  more  attentively  I 
scrutinise  the  whole  of  my  own  past  life,  the 
more  convinced  do  I  become  of  the  strict  justice 
of  that  expression.  Superfluous — precisely  that. 
That  word  is  not  appropriate  to  other  people. 
.  .  .  People  are  bad,  good,  clever,  stupid,  agree- 
able, and  disagreeable;  but  superfluous  .  .  .  . 
no.  That  is  to  say,  understand  me:  the  universe 
could  dispense  with  these  people  also  ....  of 
course;  but  uselessness  is  not  their  chief  quality, 
is  not  their  distinguishing  characteristic,  and 
when  5^u  are  speaking  of  them,  the  word  "  super- 
fluous "  is  not  the  first  one  that  comes  to  your 
tongue.  But  I  ....  of  me  nothing  else  could 
possibly  be  said:  superfluous — that  is  all.  Nature 
had  not,  evidently,  calculated  on  my  appearance, 
and  in  consequence  of  this,  she  treated  me  like 
an  unexpected  and  unbidden  guest.  Not  without 
cause  did  one  wag,  a  great  lover  of  Swedish  whist, 
say  of  me,  that  my  mother  had  discarded.^  I 
speak  of  myself  now  calmly,  without  any  gall. 
.  ...  'T  is  a  thing  of  the  past!  During  the 
whole  course  of  my  life  I  have  constantly  found 

1  A  decidedly  vulgar  pun  in  the  original.  —Translator. 

14 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

my  place  occupied,  possibly  because  I  sought 
my  place  in  the  wrong  direction.  I  was  sus- 
picious, bashful,  irritable,  like  all  invalids;  more- 
over, probably  owing  to  superfluous  vanity, — or 
by  reason  of  the  deficient  organisation  of  my 
person, — between  my  feelings  and  my  thoughts 
and  the  expression  of  those  feelings  and  thoughts 
there  existed  some  senseless,  incomprehensible 
and  insuperable  barrier;  and  when  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  overcome  that  impediment  by  force, 
to  break  down  that  barrier,  my  movements,  the 
expression  of  my  face,  my  entire  being  as- 
sumed the  aspect  of  anguished  tension:  I  not 
only  seemed,  but  I  actually  became  unnatural  and 
affected.  I  was  conscious  of  it  myself  and  made 
haste  to  retire  again  into  myself.  Then  a  fright- 
ful tumult  arose  within  me.  I  analysed  myself 
to  the  last  shred;  I  compared  myself  with  other 
people ;  I  recalled  the  smallest  glances,  the  smiles, 
the  words  of  the  people  before  whom  I  would 
have  liked  to  expand;  I  interpreted  everything 
from  its  bad  side,  and  laughed  maliciously  over 
my  pretensions  "  to  be  like  the  rest  of  the  world," 
—and  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  my  laughter, 
I  sadly  relaxed  utterly,  fell  into  foolish  dejec- 
tion, and  then  began  the  same  thing  all  over 
again;  in  a  word,  I  ran  round  like  a  squirrel  in 
a  wheel.  Whole  days  passed  in  this  torturing, 
fruitless  toil.  Come  now,  tell  me,  pray,  to  whom 
and  for  what  is  such  a  man  of  use?     Why  did 

15 


THE  DIARY  OF 

this  happen  with  me,  what  was  the  cause  of  this 
minute  fidgeting  over  myself — who  knows? 
Who  can  say? 

I  remember,  one  day  I  was  driving  out  of  Mos- 
cow in  the  dihgence.  The  road  was  good,  but 
the  postihon  had  hitched  an  extra  trace-horse  to 
the  four-span.  This  unhappy,  fifth,  wholly  un- 
necessary horse,  fastened  in  rough  fashion  to  the 
fore-end  of  a  thick,  short  rope,  which  ruthlessly 
saws  its  haunches,  rubs  its  tail,  makes  it  run 
in  the  most  unnatural  manner,  and  imparts  to 
its  whole  body  the  shape  of  a  comma,  always 
arouses  my  profound  compassion.  I  remarked 
to  the  postilion  that,  apjiarently,  the  fifth  horse 

might  be  dispensed  with  on  that  occasion 

He  remained  silent  awhile,  shook  the  back  of  his 
neck,  lashed  the  horse  half  a  score  of  times  in  suc- 
cession with  his  whip  across  its  gaunt  back  and 
under  its  pufFed-out  belly — and  said,  not  with- 
out a  grin:  "  Well,  you  see,  it  has  stuck  itself  on, 
that 's  a  fact!  AVhat  the  devil 's  the  use?  " 

And  I,  also,  have  stuck  myself  on.  .  .  But  the 
station  is  not  far  off,  I  think. 

Superfluous.  ...  I  promised  to  prove  the 
justice  of  my  opinion,  and  I  will  fulfil  my 
promise.  I  do  not  consider  it  necessary  to  men- 
tion a  thousand  details,  daily  occurrences  and  in- 
cidents, which,  moreover,  in  the  eyes  of  every 
thoughtful  man  might  serve  as  incontrovertible 
proofs  in  my  favour— that  is  to  say»  in  favour 

16 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

of  my  view;  it  is  better  for  me  to  begin  directly 
with  one  decidedly  important  event,  after  which, 
probably,  no  doubt  will  remain  as  to  the  accuracy 
of  the  word  superfluous,  I  repeat:  I  have  no 
intention  of  entering  into  details,  but  I  cannot 
pass  over  in  silence  one  decidedly  curious  and 
noteworthy  circumstance, — namely,  the  strange 
manner  in  which  my  friends  treated  me  (I  also 
had  friends)  every  time  I  chanced  to  meet  them, 
or  even  dropped  in  to  see  them.  They  seemed 
to  grow  uneasy;  as  they  came  to  meet  me  they 
either  smiled  in  a  not  entirely  natural  manner, 
looked  not  at  my  eyes,  not  at  my  feet,  as  some 
people  do,  but  chiefly  at  my  cheeks,  hastily  ejacu- 
lated: "All!  how  do  you  do,  Tchulkatiirin !  " 
(Fate  had  favoured  me  лvith  that  name^)  or, 
"Ah!  so  here  's  Tchulkatiirin!"  immediately 
stepped  aside,  went  apart,  and  ел^еп  remained  for 
some  time  thereafter  motionless,  as  though  they 
were  trying  to  recall  something.  I  noticed  all  this, 
because  I  am  not  deficient  in  penetration  and  the 
gift  of  observation;  on  the  whole,  I  am  not 
stupid;  decidedly  amusing  thoughts  sometimes 
come  into  my  head  even,  not  at  all  ordinary 
thoughts ;  but,  as  I  am  a  superfluous  man  with  a 
dumbness  inside  me,  I  dread  to  express  my 
thought,  the  more  so,  as  I  know  beforehand  that 
I  shall  express  it  very  badly.  It  even  seems 
strange  to  me,  sometimes,  that  people  can  talk, 

1  Derived  from  tchuldk,  stocking.  —Translator. 

17 


THE  DIARY  OF 

and  so  simply,  so  freely.  ..."  What  a  calam- 
ity! !  "  you  think.  I  am  bound  to  say  that  my 
tongue  prett}^  often  itched,  in  spite  of  my 
dumbness;  and  I  actually  did  utter  words  in 
my  youth,  but  in  riper  years  I  succeeded  in 
restraining  myself  almost  every  time.  I  would 
say  to  myself  in  an  undertone:  "  See  here, 
now,  't  will  be  better  for  me  to  hold  my  tongue 
awhile,"  and  I  quieted  down.  We  are  all  ex- 
perts at  holding  our  tongues;  our  women  in 
particular  Ьал^е  that  capacity:  one  exalted  young 
Russian  lady  maintains  silence  so  vigorously 
that  such  a  spectacle  is  capable  of  producing  a 
slight  shiver  and  cold  perspiration  even  in  a  man 
who  has  been  forewarned.  But  that  is  not 
the  point,  and  it  is  not  for  me  to  criticise  other 
people.    I  will  proceed  to  the  promised  story. 

Several  years  ago,  thanks  to  a  concurrence  of 
trivial  but,  for  me,  very  important  circumstances, 
I  chanced  to  pass  six  months  in  the  county  town 
of  O***.  This  town  is  built  entirely  on  a  de- 
clivity. It  has  about  eight  hundred  inhabitants, 
remarkably  poor;  the  wretched  little  houses  are 
outrageously  bad;  in  the  main  street,  under  the 
guise  of  a  pavement,  formidable  slabs  of  un- 
hewn limestone  crop  out  whitely  here  and  there, 
in  consequence  of  which,  even  the  peasant-carts 
drive  around  it ;  in  the  very  centre  of  an  astonish- 
ingly untidy  square  rises  a  tiny  yellowish  struc- 
ture with  dark  holes,  and  in  the  holes  sit  men  in 

18 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

large  caps  with  visors,  and  pretend  to  be  en- 
gaged in  trade;  there,  also,  rears  itself  aloft  a 
remarkably  tall,  striped  pole,  and  beside  the  pole, 
by  way  of  order,  at  the  command  of  the  author- 
ities, a  load  of  yellow  hay  is  kept,  and  one  gov- 
ernmental hen  stalks  about.  In  a  word,  in  the 
town  of  O***  existence  is  excellent. 

During  the  early  days  of  my  sojourn  in  that 
town  I  nearly  went  out  of  my  mind  with  ennui. 
I  must  say  of  myself  that,  although  I  am  a  su- 
perfluous man,  of  course,  yet  it  is  not  of  my 
own  will ;  I  am  sickly  myself,  but  I  cannot  endure 
anything  sickly.  ...  I  would  have  no  objec- 
tions to  happiness,  I  have  even  tried  to  approach 
it  from  the  right  and  from  the  left.  .  .  .  And, 
therefore,  it  is  not  surprising  that  I  can  also 
feel  bored,  like  any  other  mortal.  I  found  my- 
self in  the  town  of  O***  on  business  connected 
with  the  Government  service.  .  .  . 

Terentievna  is  absolutely  determined  to  kill 
me.    Here  is  a  specimen  of  our  conversation: 

Terentievna.  O-okh,  dear  little  father!  why 
do  you  keep  writing?  It  is  n't  healthy  for  you 
to  Write. 

I.     But  I  'm  bored,  Terentievna. 

She.     But  do  drink  some  tea  and  lie  down. 

I.     But  I  don't  feel  sleepy. 

She.  Akh,  dear  little  father!  Why  do  you 
say  that?  The  Lord  be  with  you!  Lie  down 
now,  lie  down ;  it  's  better  for  you. 

19 


THE  DIARY  OF 

J.     I  shall  die  anyway,  Terentlevna. 

She.  The  Lord  forbid  and  have  mercy!  .  .  . 
Well,  now,  do  you  order  me  to  make  tea? 

I.     I  shall  not  survive  this  week,  Terentievna. 

She.  li-i,  dear  little  father!  Why  do  you 
say  that?  ...  So  I  '11  go  and  prepare  the  sam- 
ovar. 

Oh,  decrepit,  yellow,  toothless  creature!  Is  it 
possible  that  to  you  I  am  not  a  man! 


March  24.  A  hard  frost. 
On  the  very  day  of  my  arrival  in  the  town  of 
O***,  the  above-mentioned  governmental  busi- 
ness caused  me  to  call  on  a  certain  Ozhogin,  Kirill 
Matvyeevitch,  one  of  the  chief  officials  of  the 
county;  but  I  made  acquaintance  with  him,  or, 
as  the  saying  is,  got  intimate  with  him,  two  weeks 
later.  His  house  was  situated  on  the  principal 
street,  and  was  distinguished  from  all  the  rest 
by  its  size,  its  painted  roof,  and  two  lions  on  the 
gate,  belonging  to  that  race  of  lions  which  bear 
a  remarkable  likeness  to  the  unsuccessful  dogs 
whose  birthplace  is  Moscow.  It  is  possible  to 
deduce  from  these  lions  alone  that  Ozhogin  was 
an  opulent  man.  And,  in  fact,  he  owned  four 
hundred  souls  of  serfs ;  *  he  received  at  his  house 
the  best  society  of  the  town  of  O***,  and  bore 
the  reputation  of  being  a  hospitable  man.    The 

^  Meaning  male  serfs.     The  women  and  children  were  not 

reckoned.— Translator.  ^/ 

20 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

chief  of  police  came  to  him,  in  a  broad  carroty- 
hued  drozhky  drawn  by  a  pair  of  horses — a  re- 
markably large  man,  who  seemed  to  have  been 
carved  out  of  shop-worn  material.  Other  officials 
visited  him  also:  the  pettifogger,  a  yellowish  and 
rather  malicious  creature;  the  waggish  surveyor, 
of  German  extraction,  with  a  Tatar  face;  the 
officer  of  Ways  of  Communication,  a  tender  soul, 
a  singer,  but  a  scandal-monger;  a  former  county 
Marshal  of  Nobility,  a  gentleman  with  dyed 
hair,  and  rumpled  cuffs,  trousers  with  straps, 
and  that  extremely  noble  expression  of  counte- 
nance which  is  so  characteristic  of  people  who 
have  been  under  trial  by  the  courts.  He  was 
visited  also  by  two  landed  proprietors,  insep- 
arable friends,  both  no  longer  young,  and  even 
threadbare  with  age,  the  younger  of  whom  was 
constantly  squelching  the  elder,  and  shutting  his 
mouth  with  one  and  the  same  reproach:  "  Come, 
that  will  do,  Sergyei  Sergyeitch!  What  do  you 
know  about  it?  For  you  write  the  word  probka 
[cork]  with  the  letter  Ъ.  .  .  .  Yes,  gentlemen," 
— he  was  wont  to  continue,  with  all  the  heat  of 
conviction,  addressing  those  present: — "  Ser- 
gyei Sergyeitch  writes  not  probha,  but  brobha." 
And  all  present  laughed,  although,  probably, 
not  one  of  them  was  particularly  distinguished 
for  his  skill  in  orthography;  and  the  unhappy 
Sergyei  Sergyeitch  held  his  peace,  and  bowed 
his  head  with  a  pacific  smile.  But  I  am  forget- 
ting that  my  days  are  numbered,  and  am  entering 

21 


THE  DIARY  OF 

into  too  great  detail.  So  then,  without  further 
circumlocution:  Ozhogin  was  married  and  had 
a  daughter,  Elizaveta  Kirillovna,  and  I  fell  in 
love  with  that  daughter. 

Ozhogin  himself  was  a  commonplace  man,  nei- 
ther good  nor  bad ;  his  wife  was  beginning  to  look 
a  good  deal  like  an  aged  hen ;  but  their  daughter 
did  not  take  after  her  parents.  She  was  very 
comely,  of  vivacious  and  gentle  disposition.  Her 
bright  grey  eyes  gazed  good-naturedly,  and  in 
a  straightforward  manner  from  beneath  child- 
ishly-arched brows ;  she  smiled  almost  constantly, 
and  laughed  also  quite  frequently.  Her  fresh 
voice  had  a  very  pleasant  ring ;  she  moved  easily, 
swiftly,  and  blushed  gaily.  She  did  not  dress 
very  elegantly ;  extremely  simple  gowns  suited  her 
best. 

As  a  rule,  I  have  never  made  acquaintance 
quickly,  and  if  I  have  felt  at  ease  with  a  person 
on  first  meeting,— which,  however,  has  almost 
never  been  the  case,— I  confess  that  that  has 
spoken  strongly  in  favour  of  the  new  acquain- 
tance. I  have  not  known  how  to  behave  to 
women  at  all,  and  in  their  presence  I  either 
frowned  and  assumed  a  fierce  expression,  or  dis- 
played my  teeth  in  a  grin  in  the  stupidest  way, 
and  twisted  my  tongue  about  in  my  mouth  with 
embarrassment.  With  Ehzaveta  Kirillovna,  on 
the  contrary,  I  felt  myself  at  home  from  the  very 
first  moment.    This  is  how  it  came  about.    One 

22 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

day  I  arrive  at  Ozhogin's  before  dinner,  and 
ask:  "  Is  he  at  home?  "  I  am  told:  "  Yes,  and  he 
is  dressing;  please  come  into  the  hall."  ^  I  go 
into  the  hall;  I  see  a  young  girl  in  a  white  gown 
standing  by  the  window,  with  her  back  toward 
me,  and  holding  a  cage  in  her  hands.  I  curl 
up  a  little,  according  to  my  habit;  but,  neverthe- 
less, I  cough  out  of  propriety.  The  young  girl 
turns  round  quickly,  so  quickly  that  her  curls 
strike  her  in  the  face,  catches  sight  of  me,  bows, 
and  with  a  smile  shows  me  a  little  box,  half -filled 
with  seed. 

"  Will  you  excuse  me? "' 

Of  course,  as  is  customary  in  such  circum- 
stances, I  first  bent  my  head,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  crooked  and  straightened  my  knees  (as 
though  some  one  had  hit  me  from  behind  in  the 
back  of  my  legs,  which,  as  everybody  knows, 
serves  as  a  token  of  excellent  breeding  and  agree- 
able ease  of  manner),  and  then  smiled,  raised  my 
hand,  and  waved  it  twice  cautiously  and  gently  in 
the  air.  The  girl  immediately  turned  away  from 
me,  took  from  the  cage  a  small  board,  and  began 
to  scrape  it  violently  with  a  knife,  and  suddenly, 
without  changing  her  attitude,  gave  utterance  to 
the  following  words: 

"  This  is  papa's  bull-finch.  .  .  .  Do  you  like 
bull-finches?" 

1  The  large  music-room,  also  used  for  dancing,  as  a  play-room  for  the 
children  in  winter,  and  so  forth,  in  Russian  houses. — Translator. 

23 


THE  DIARY  OF 

"  I  prefer  canary-birds,"— I  replied,  not  with- 
out a  certain  effort. 

"And  I  am  fond  of  canary-birds  also;  but 
just  look  at  him,  see  how  pretty  he  is.  See,  he  is 
not  afraid." — What  surprised  me  was  that  I  was 
not  afraid.  —  "  Come  closer.  His  name  is  Popka." 

I  went  up,  and  bent  over. 

"  He  's  very  charming,  is  n't  he?  " 

She  turned  her  face  toward  me;  but  we  were 
standing  so  close  to  each  other  that  she  was 
obliged  to  throw  her  head  back  a  Httle,  in  order 
to  look  at  me  with  her  bright  eyes.  I  gazed  at 
her:  the  whole  of  her  rosy  young  face  was  smil- 
ing in  so  friendly  a  manner  that  I  smiled  also, 
and  almost  laughed  aloud  with  pleasure.  The 
door  opened;  Mr.  Ozhogin  entered.  I  imme- 
diately went  to  him,  and  began  to  talk  with  him 
in  a  very  unembarrassed  way;  I  do  not  know 
myself  how  I  came  to  stay  to  dinner;  I  sat  out 
the  whole  evening,  and  on  the  following  day, 
Ozhogin's  lackey,  a  long,  purblind  fellow,  was 
already  smiling  at  me,  as  a  friend  of  the  house, 
as  he  pulled  off  my  overcoat. 

To  find  a  refuge,  to  weave  for  myself  even  a 
temporary  nest,  to  know  the  joy  of  daily  rela- 
tions and  habits, — that  was  a  happiness  which 
I,  a  superfluous  man,  without  domestic  memories, 
had  not  experienced  up  to  that  time.  If  there 
were  anything  about  me  suggestive  of  a  flower, 
and  if  that  comparison  were  not  so  threadbare,  I 

24 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

would  decide  to  say  that,  from  that  hour,  I  began 
to  blossom  out  in  spirit.  Everything  in  me  and 
round  about  me  underwent  such  an  instantaneous 
change!  My  whole  life  was  illuminated  by  love, 
—literally  my  whole  life,  down  to  the  smallest  de- 
tails,— like  a  dark,  deserted  chamber  into  which 
a  candle  has  been  brought.  I  lay  down  to  sleep 
and  I  rose  up,  di'essed  myself,  breakfasted,  and 
smoked  my  pipe  in  a  way  different  from  my 
habit;  I  even  skipped  as  I  walked, — really  I  did, 
as  though  wings  had  suddenly  sprouted  on  my 
shoulders.  I  remember  that  I  was  not  in  doubt 
even  for  a  minute,  as  to  the  feeling  with  which 
Elizaveta  Kirillovna  had  inspired  me;  and  from 
the  very  first  day,  I  fell  in  love  with  her  passion- 
ately, and  from  the  very  first  day,  too,  I  knew  that 
I  was  in  love.  I  saw  her  every  day  for  the  space 
of  three  weeks.  Those  three  weeks  were  the  hap- 
piest time  of  my  life;  but  the  remembrance  of 
them  is  painful  to  me.  I  cannot  think  of  them 
alone:  that  which  followed  them  involuntarily 
rises  up  before  me,  and  venomous  grief  slowly 
grips  the  heart  which  had  just  grown  soft. 

When  a  man  is  feeling  very  well,  his  brain,  as 
every  one  knows,  acts  very  little.  A  calm  and 
joyous  feeling,  a  feeling  of  satisfaction,  per- 
meates his  whole  being;  he  is  swallowed  up  in 
it;  the  consciousness  of  individuality  vanishes  in 
him — he  is  in  a  state  of  bhss,  as  badly  educated 
poets  say.    But  when,  at  last,  that  "  spell  "  passes 

25 


THE  DIARY  OF 

off,  a  man  sometimes  feels  vexed  and  regretful 
that,  in  the  midst  of  happiness,  he  was  so  unob- 
servant of  himself  that  he  did  not  redouble  his 
thoughts,  his  reflections,  and  his  memories,  that 
he  did  not  prolong  his  enjoyment  ....  as 
though  a  "  blissful "  man  had  any  time,  and  as 
though  it  were  worth  while  to  reflect  about  his 
own  emotions!  The  happy  man  is  like  a  fly  in 
the  sunshine.  That  is  why,  when  I  recall  those 
three  weeks,  I  find  it  almost  impossible  to  retain 
in  my  mind  an  accurate,  definite  impression,  the 
more  so,  as  in  the  whole  course  of  that  time,  no- 
thing of  particular  note  took  place  between  us. 
....  Those  twenty  days  present  themselves  to 
me  as  something  warm,  young,  and  fragrant, 
as  a  sort  of  bright  streak  in  my  dim  and  grey- 
hued  life.  My  memory  suddenly  becomes  im- 
placably faithful  and  clear,  only  dating  from  the 
moment  when  the  blows  of  Fate  descended  upon 
me,  speaking  again  in  the  words  of  those  same 
ill-bred  writers. 

Yes,  those  three  weeks.  .  .  .  However,  they 
did  not  precisely  leave  no  images  behind  in  me. 
Sometimes,  when  I  happen  to  think  long  of  that 
time,  certain  memories  suddenly  float  forth  from 
the  gloom  of  the  past — as  the  stars  unexpectedly 
start  forth  in  the  evening  sky  to  meet  attentively- 
riveted  eyes.  Especially  memorable  to  me  is 
one  stroll  in  a  grove  outside  the  town.  There 
were  four  of  us:  old  Madame  Ozhogin,  Liza,  I, 

26 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

and  a  certain  Bizmyonkoff,  a  petty  official  of 
the  town  of  O***,  a  fair-haired,  good-natured, 
and  meek  young  man.  I  shall  have  occasion  to 
allude  to  him  again.  Mr.  Ozhogin  remained  at 
home :  his  head  ached,  in  consequence  of  his  hav- 
ing slept  too  long.  The  day  was  splendid,  warm, 
and  calm.  I  must  remark  that  gardens  of  enter- 
tainment and  public  amusement  are  not  to  the 
taste  of  the  Russian.  In  governmental  towns, 
in  the  so-called  Public  Gardens,  you  will  never 
encounter  a  living  soul  at  any  season  of  the  year ; 
possibly  some  old  woman  will  seat  herself,  grunt- 
ing, on  a  green  bench  baked  through  and  through 
by  the  sun,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a  sickly  tree, 
and  that  only  when  there  is  no  dirty  little  shop 
close  to  the  gate.  But  if  there  is  a  sparse  little 
birch-grove  in  the  vicinity  of  the  town,  the  mer- 
chants, and  sometimes  the  officials,  will  gladly  go 
thither  on  Sundays  and  feast-days,  with  their 
samovar,  patties,  water-melons,  and  set  out  all 
those  good  gifts  on  the  dusty  grass,  right  by  the 
side  of  the  road,  seat  themselves  around,  and  eat 
and  drink  tea  in  the  sweat  of  their  brows  until 
the  very  evening.  Precisely  that  sort  of  small 
grove  existed  then  two  versts  distant  from  the 
town  of  O***.  We  went  thither  after  dinner, 
drank  tea  in  due  form,  and  then  all  four  of  us 
set  off  for  a  stroll  through  the  grove.  Bizmyon- 
koff gave  his  arm  to  old  ]\Iadame  Ozhogin ;  I  gaл^e 
mine  to  Liza.     The  day  was  abeady  inclining 

27 


THE  DIARY  OF 

toward  evening.  I  was  then  in  the  very  ardour  of 
first  love  (not  more  than  a  fortnight  had  elapsed 
since  we  had  become  acquainted) ,  in  that  con- 
dition of  passionate  and  attentive  adoration, 
when  your  whole  soul  innocently  and  involun- 
tarily follows  every  motion  of  the  beloved  being ; 
when  you  cannot  satiate  yourself  with  its  pres- 
ence, or  hear  enough  of  its  voice ;  when  you  smile 
and  look  like  a  convalescent  child,  and  any  man 
of  a  little  experience  must  see  at  the  first  glance, 
a  hundred  paces  off,  what  is  going  on  in  you. 

Up  to  that  day,  I  had  not  once  chanced  to  be 
arm  in  arm  with  Liza.  I  walked  by  her  side, 
treading  softly  on  the  green  grass.  A  light 
breeze  seemed  to  be  fluttering  around  us,  between 
the  white  boles  of  the  birch-trees,  now  and  then 
blowing  the  ribbon  of  her  hat  in  my  face.  With 
an  importunate  gaze  I  watched  her,  until,  at  last, 
she  turned  gaily  to  me,  and  we  smiled  at  each 
other.  The  birds  chirped  approvingly  overhead, 
the  blue  sky  peered  caressingly  through  the  fine 
foliage.  My  head  reeled  with  excess  of  pleasure. 
I  hasten  to  remark  that  Liza  was  not  in  the 
least  in  love  with  me.  She  liked  me;  in  general, 
she  was  not  shy  of  any  one,  but  I  was  not  fated 
to  disturb  her  childish  tranquillity.  She  walked 
arm  in  arm  with  me,  as  with  a  brother.  She  was 
seventeen  years  old  at  the  time.  .  .  .  And  yet, 
that  same  evening,  in  my  presence,  there  began 
in  her  that  quiet,  inward  fermentation,  which 

28 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

precedes  the  conversion  of  a  child  into  a  woman. 
....  I  was  witness  to  that  change  of  the  whole 
being,  that  innocent  perplexity,  that  tremulous 
pensiveness ;  I  was  the  first  to  note  that  sudden 
softness  of  glance,  that  ringing  uncertainty  of 
voice — and,  oh,  stupid  fool!  oh,  superfluous  man! 
for  a  whole  week  I  was  not  ashamed  to  assume 
that  I,  I  was  the  cause  of  that  change ! 

This  is  the  way  it  happened. 

We  strolled  for  quite  a  long  time,  until  even- 
ing, and  chatted  very  little.  I  held  my  peace,  like 
all  inexperienced  lovers,  and  she,  in  all  proba- 
bility, had  nothing  to  say  to  me;  but  she  seemed 
to  be  meditating  about  something,  and  shook  her 
head  in  a  queei  sort  of  way,  pensively  nibbling  at 
a  leaf  which  she  had  plucked.  Sometimes  she 
began  to  stride  forward  in  such  a  decided  way 
.  .  .  and  then  suddenly  halted,  waited  for  me 
and  gazed  about  her  with  eyebrows  elevated  and 
an  absent-minded  smile.  On  the  preceding  even- 
ing, we  had  read  together  "  The  Prisoner  of  the 
Caucasus."  ^  With  what  eagerness  had  she  lis- 
tened to  me,  with  her  face  propped  on  both  hands, 
and  her  bosom  resting  against  the  table !  I  tried 
to  talk  about  our  reading  of  the  evening  before ; 
she  blushed,  asked  me  whether  I  had  given  the 
bull-finch  any  hemp-seed  before  we  started,  be- 
gan to  sing  loudly  some  song,  then  suddenly 
ceased.    The  grove  ended  on  one  side  in  a  rather 

1  By  M.  Y.  Lermontoff. 

29 


THE  DIARY  OF 

steep  and  lofty  cliff ;  below  flowed  a  small,  mean- 
dering river,  and  beyond  it,  further  than  the  eye 
could  see,  stretched  endless  meadows,  now  swell- 
ing slightly  like  waves,  now  spreading  out  like 
a  table-cloth,  here  and  there  intersected  with 
ravines.  Liza  and  I  were  the  first  to  emerge  on 
the  edge  of  the  grove;  Bizmyonkoff  remained 
behind  with  the  old  lady.  We  came  out,  halted, 
and  both  of  us  involuntarily  narrowed  our  eyes: 
directly  opposite  us,  in  the  midst  of  the  red-hot 
mist,  the  sun  was  setting,  huge  and  crimson. 
Half  the  sky  was  aglow  and  flaming;  the  red 
rays  beat  aslant  across  the  meadows,  casting  a 
scarlet  reflection  even  on  the  shady  side  of  the 
ravine,  and  lay  like  fiery  lead  upon  the  river, 
where  it  was  not  hidden  under  overhanging 
bushes,  and  seemed  to  be  reposing  in  the  lap  of 
the  ravine  and  the  grove.  We  stood  there 
drenched  in  the  blazing  radiance.  It  is  beyond 
my  power  to  impart  all  the  passionate  solemnity 
of  that  picture.  They  say  that  the  colour  red 
appeared  to  one  blind  man  like  the  sound  of 
a  trumpet;  I  do  not  know  to  what  degree  that 
comparison  is  just;  but,  actually,  there  was 
something  challenging  in  that  flaming  gold  of 
the  evening  air,  in  the  crimson  glow  of  sky  and 
earth.  I  cried  out  with  rapture,  and  immediately 
turned  to  Liza.  She  was  gazing  straight  at  the 
sun.  I  remember,  the  glare  of  the  sunset  was  re- 
flected in  her  eyes  in  tiny,  flaming  spots.  She 
Avas  startled,  profoundly  moved.     She  made  no 

30 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

answer  to  my  exclamation,  did  not  stir  for  a  long 
time,  and  hung  her  head.  ...  I  stretched  out 
my  hand  to  her;  she  turned  away  from  me,  and 
suddenly  burst  into  tears.  I  gazed  at  her  with 
secret,  almost  joyful  surprise.  .  .  .  BizmyonkofF's 
voice  rang  out  a  couple  of  paces  from  us.  Liza 
hastily  wiped  her  eyes,  and  with  a  лvavering 
smile  looked  at  me.  The  old  lady  emerged  from 
the  grove,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  fair-haired 
escort;  both  of  them,  in  their  turn,  admired  the 
view.  The  old  lady  asked  Liza  some  question, 
and  I  remember  that  I  involuntarily  shivered 
when,  in  reply,  her  daughter's  broken  voice,  like 
cracked  glass,  resounded  in  reply.  In  the  mean- 
while, the  sun  had  set,  the  glow  was  beginning 
to  die  out.  We  retraced  our  steps.  I  again  gave 
Liza  my  arm.  It  was  still  light  in  the  grove,  and 
I  could  clearly  discern  her  features.  She  was 
embarrassed,  and  did  not  raise  her  eyes.  The 
flush  which  had  spread  all  over  her  face  did  not 
disappear;  she  seemed  still  to  be  standing  in  the 
rays  of  the  setting  sun.  .  .  .  Her  arm  barely 
touched  mine.  For  a  long  time  I  could  not  start 
a  conversation,  so  violently  was  my  heart  beating. 
We  caught  glimpses  of  the  carriage  far  away, 
through  the  trees;  the  coachman  was  driving 
to  meet  us  at  a  foot-pace  over  the  friable  sand  of 
the  road. 

"  Lizaveta  Kirillovna," — I  said  at  last, — 
"  why  did  you  weep?  " 

"  I  don't  know," — she  answered  after  a  brief 

31 


THE  DIARY  OF 

pause,  looking  at  me  with  her  gentle  eyes,  still 
wet  with  tears, — their  glance  seemed  to  me  to 
have  undergone  a  change,— and  again  fell  silent. 

"  I  see  that  you  love  nature  .  ..."  I  went 
on. — That  was  not  in  the  least  what  I  had 
meant  to  say,  and  my  tongue  hardly  stam- 
mered out  the  last  phrase  to  the  end.  She  shook 
her  head.  I  could  not  utter  a  word  more.  ...  I 
was  waiting  for  something  ....  not  a  con- 
fession—no, indeed!  I  was  waiting  for  a  confid- 
ing glance,  a  question.  .  .  .  But  Liza  stared  at 
the  ground  and  held  her  peace.  I  repeated  once 
more,  in  an  undertone:  "  ЛЛПау?  "  and  received  no 
reply.  She  was  embarrassed,  almost  ashamed, 
I  saw  that. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  we  were  all  seated 
in  the  carriage  and  driving  toward  the  town. 
The  horses  advanced  at  a  brisk  trot;  we  dashed 
swiftly  through  the  moist,  darkening  air.  I  sud- 
denly began  to  talk,  incessantly  addressing  my- 
self now  to  BizmyonkofF,  now  to  JNIadame  Ozho- 
gin.  I  did  not  look  at  Liza,  but  I  could  not 
avoid  perceiving  that  from  the  corner  of  the  car- 
riage her  gaze  пел^ег  once  rested  on  me.  At  home 
she  recovered  with  a  start,  but  луоиИ  not  read 
with  me,  and  soon  went  off  to  bed.  The  break— 
that  break  of  which  I  have  spoken— had  been  ef- 
fected in  her.  She  had  ceased  to  be  a  little  girl; 
she  was  already  beginning  to  expect  .  .  .  like 
myself  ....  something  or  other.  She  did  not 
have  to  wait  long. 

32 


A   SUPERFLUOUS   IMAN 

But  that  night  I  returned  to  my  lodgings  in 
a  state  of  utter  enchantment.  The  confused 
something,  which  was  not  exactly  a  foreboding, 
nor  yet  exactly  a  suspicion,  that  had  arisen  within 
me  vanished:  I  ascribed  the  sudden  constraint 
in  Liza's  behaviour  toward  me  to  maidenly  mod- 
esty, to  timidity.  .  .  .  Had  not  I  read  a  thou- 
sand times  in  many  compositions,  that  the  first 
appearance  of  love  agitates  and  alarms  a  young 
girl?  I  felt  myself  very  happy,  and  already 
began  to  construct  various  plans  in  my  own 
mind.  .  .  . 

If  any  one  had  then  whispered  in  my  ear: 
"  Thou  liest,  my  dear  fellow !  that  's  not  in  store 
for  thee  at  all,  my  lad!  thou  art  doomed  to  die 
alone  in  a  miserable  little  house,  to  the  intolerable 
grumbling  of  an  old  peasant-woman,  who  can 
hardly  wait  for  thy  death,  in  order  that  she  may 
sell  thy  boots  for  a  song.  .  .  ." 

Yes,  one  involuntarily  says,  with  the  Russian 
philosopher :  "  How  is  one  to  know  what  he  does 
not  know?  "—Until  to-morrow. 


March  25.  A  white  winter  day. 
I  HAVE  read  over  what  I  wrote  yesterday,  and 
came  near  tearing  up  the  whole  note-book.  It 
seems  to  me  that  mj^  style  of  narrative  is  too  pro- 
tracted and  too  mawkish.  However,  as  my  re- 
maining memories  of  that  period  present  no- 
thing cheerful,   save   the  joy  of  that  peculiar 

33 


THE  DIARY  OF 

nature  which  LermontoiF  had  in  view  when  he 
said  that  it  is  a  cheerful  and  a  painful  thing  to 
touch  the  ulcers  of  ancient  wounds,  then  why- 
should  not  I  observe  myself?  But  I  must  not 
impose  upon  kindness.  Therefore  I  will  continue 
without  mawkishness. 

For  the  space  of  a  whole  week,  after  that  stroll 
outside  the  town,  my  position  did  not  improve 
in  the  least,  although  the  change  in  Liza  became 
more  perceptible  every  day.  As  I  have  already 
stated,  I  interpreted  this  change  in  the  most  fa- 
vourable possible  light  for  myself.  .  .  .  The  mis- 
fortune of  solitary  and  timid  men— those  who 
are  timid  through  self-love— consists  precisely  in 
this— that  they,  having  eyes,  and  even  keeping 
them  staring  wide  open,  see  nothing,  or  see  it 
in  a  false  light,  as  though  through  coloured 
glasses.  And  their  own  thoughts  and  observa- 
tions hinder  them  at  every  step. 

In  the  beginning  of  our  acquaintance  Liza 
had  treated  me  trustingly  and  frankly,  like  a 
child;  perhaps,  even,  in  her  liking  for  me  there 
was  something  of  simple,  childish  affection.  .  .  . 
But  when  that  strange,  almost  sudden  crisis  took 
place  in  her,  after  a  short  perplexitj^  she  felt  her- 
self embarrassed  in  my  presence,  she  turned  away 
from  me  involuntarily,  and  at  the  same  time 
grew  sad  and  pensive.  .  .  .  She  was  expecting 
....  what?  She  herself  did  not  know  .  .  .  . 
but  I  ....  I,  as  I  have  already  said,  rejoiced 

34 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

at  that  crisis.  ...  As  God  is  my  witness,  I  al- 
most swooned  with  rapture,  as  the  saying  is. 
However,  I  am  wilHng  to  admit  that  any  one  else 
in  my  place  might  have  been  deceived  also.  .  .  . 
Who  is  devoid  of  self-love?  It  is  unnecessary  to 
say  that  all  this  became  clear  to  me  only  after  a 
time,  луЬеп  I  was  compelled  to  fold  my  injured 
wings,  which  were  not  any  too  strong  at  best. 

The  misunderstanding  which  arose  between 
Liza  and  me  lasted  for  a  whole  week, — and 
there  is  nothing  surprising  about  that :  it  has  been 
my  lot  to  be  a  witness  of  misunderstandings 
which  have  lasted  for  years  and  years.  And  who 
was  it  that  said  that  only  the  true  is  real?  A  lie 
is  as  tenacious  of  life  as  is  the  truth,  if  not 
more  so.  It  is  a  fact,  I  remember,  that  even  dur- 
ing that  week  I  had  a  pang  now  and  then  .... 
but  a  lonely  man  like  myself,  I  will  say  once 
more,  is  as  incapable  of  understanding  what  is 
going  on  within  him  as  he  is  of  comprehending 
what  is  going  on  before  his  eyes.  Yes,  and  more 
than  that;  is  love  a  natural  feeling?  Is  it  natural 
to  a  man  to  love?  Love  is  a  malady;  and  for  a 
malady  the  law  is  not  written.  Suppose  my 
heart  did  contract  unpleasantly  within  me  at 
times;  but,  then,  everything  in  me  was  turned 
upside  down.  How  is  a  man  to  know  under  such 
circumstances  what  is  right  and  what  is  wrong, 
what  is  the  cause,  what  is  the  significance  of  every 
separate  sensation? 

35 


THE  DIARY  OF 

But,  be  that  as  it  may,  all  these  misunderstand- 
ings, forebodings,  and  hopes  were  resolved  in  the 
following  manner. 

One  day,— it  was  in  the  morning,  about  eleven 
o'clock,— before  I  had  contrived  to  set  my  foot 
in  Mr.  Ozhogin's  anteroom,  an  unfamiliar,  ring- 
ing voice  resounded  in  the  hall,  the  door  flew 
open,  and,  accompanied  by  the  master  of  the 
house,  there  appeared  on  the  threshold  a  tall, 
stately  man  of  five-and-twenty,  who  hastily 
threw  on  his  military  cloak,  which  was  lying  on 
the  bench,  took  an  affectionate  leave  of  Kirill 
Matvyeevitch,  touched  his  cap  negligently  as  he 
passed  me— and  vanished,  clinking  his  spurs. 

"  Who  is  that?  "—I  asked  Ozhogin. 

"  Prince  N***," — replied  the  latter,  with  a 
troubled  face; — "  he  has  been  sent  from  Peters- 
burg to  receive  the  recruits.  But  where  are  those 
servants?  "—he  went  on  with  vexation: — "  there 
was  no  one  to  put  on  his  cloak." 

We  entered  the  hall. 

"  Has  he  been  here  long?  " — I  inquired. 

"  They  say  he  came  yesterday  evening.  I  of- 
fered him  a  room  in  my  house,  but  he  declined  it. 
However,  he  seems  to  be  a  very  nice  young 
fellow." 

"  Did  he  stay  long  with  you?  " 

"  About  an  hour.  He  asked  me  to  introduce 
him  to  Olympiada  Nikitichna." 

"  And  did  you  introduce  him?  " 
36 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

"  Certainly." 

"  And  did  he  make  acquaintance  with  Lizaveta 
Kirillovna?  .  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  he  made  her  acquaintance,  of  course." 

I  said  nothing  for  a  while. 

"  Has  he  come  to  remain  long,  do  you  know?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  he  will  be  obliged  to  stay  here 
more  than  a  fortnight." 

And  Kirill  Matvyeevitch  ran  off  to  dress. 

I  paced  up  and  down  the  hall  several  times.  I 
do  not  remember  that  Prince  N***'s  arrival  pro- 
duced any  special  impression  on  me  at  the  time, 
except  that  unpleasant  sensation  which  usually 
takes  possession  of  us  at  the  appearance  of  a  new 
face  in  our  domestic  circle.  Perhaps  that  feeling 
was  mingled  with  something  in  the  nature  of 
envy  of  the  timid  and  obscure  Moscow  man  for 
the  brilliant  officer  from  Petersburg. — "  The 
Prince," — I  thought, — "  is  a  dandy  of  the  capi- 
tal; he  will  look  down  on  us."  ...  I  had  not  seen 
him  for  more  than  a  minute,  but  I  had  managed 
to  note  that  he  was  handsome,  alert,  and  easy- 
mannered. 

After  pacing  the  hall  for  a  while,  I  came  to 
a  halt,  at  last,  in  front  of  a  mirror,  pulled  from 
my  pocket  a  tiny  comb,  imparted  to  my  hair  a 
picturesque  disorder  and,  as  sometimes  happens, 
suddenly  became  engrossed  in  the  contemplation 
of  my  own  visage.  I  remember  that  my  attention 
was  concentrated  with  particular  solicitude  on 

37 


THE  DIARY  OF 

my  nose;  the  rather  flabby  and  undefined  out- 
Hne  of  that  feature  was  affording  me  no  special 
gratification— when,  all  of  a  sudden,  in  the  dark 
depths  of  the  inclined  glass,  which  reflected  al- 
most the  entire  room,  the  door  opened,  and  the 
graceful  figure  of  Liza  made  its  appearance.  I 
do  not  know  why  I  did  not  stir  and  kept  the 
same  expression  on  my  face.  Liza  craned  her 
head  forward,  gazed  attentively  at  me  and,  ele- 
vating her  eyebrows,  biting  her  lips,  and  holding 
her  breath,  like  a  person  who  is  delighted  that  he 
has  not  been  seen,  cautiously  retreated,  and  softly 
drew  the  door  to  after  her.  The  door  creaked 
faintly.  Liza  shuddered,  and  stood  stock-still  on 
the  spot.  ...  I  did  not  move.  .  .  .  Again  she 
pulled  at  the  door-handle,  and  disappeared. 
There  was  no  possibility  of  doubt :  the  expression 
of  Liza's  face  at  the  sight  of  my  person  denoted 
nothing  except  a  desire  to  beat  a  successful  re- 
treat, to  avoid  an  unpleasant  meeting;  the  swift 
gleam  of  pleasure  which  I  succeeded  in  detecting 
in  her  eyes,  when  she  thought  that  she  really  had 
succeeded  in  escaping  unperceived, — all  that  said 
but  too  clearly:  that  young  girl  was  not  in  love 
with  me.  For  a  long,  long  time  I  could  not  with- 
draw my  gaze  from  the  motionless,  dumb  door, 
which  again  presented  itself  as  a  white  spot  in 
the  depths  of  the  mirror;  I  tried  to  smile  at  my 
own  upright  figure — hung  my  head,  returned 
home,  and  flung  myself  on  the  divan.    I  felt  re- 

38 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

markably  heavy  at  heart,  so  heavy  that  I  could 
not  weep  ....  and  what  was  there  to  weep 
about?  .  .  .  .  "  Can  it  be?  "—I  kept  reiterating 
incessantly,  as  I  lay,  like  a  dead  man,  on  my  back, 
and  with  my  hands  folded  on  my  breast: — "  Can 
it  be?  "  .  .  .  .  How  do  you  like  that  "  Can  it 
be? " 

March  26.     A  thaw. 

When,  on  the  following  day,  after  long  hesi- 
tation and  inward  quailing,  I  entered  the  famil- 
iar drawing-room  of  the  Ozhogins',  I  was  no 
longer  the  same  man  whom  they  had  known  for 
the  space  of  three  weeks.  All  my  former  habits, 
from  which  I  had  begun  to  wean  myself  under 
the  influence  of  an  emotion  which  was  new  to  me, 
had  suddenly  made  their  appearance  again,  and 
taken  entire  possession  of  me  like  the  owners  re- 
turning to  their  house. 

People  like  myself  are  generally  guided  not 
so  much  by  positive  facts,  as  by  their  own  im- 
pressions; I,  who,  no  longer  ago  than  the  pre- 
vious evening,  had  been  dreaming  of  "  the  rap- 
tures of  mutual  love,"  to-day  cherished  not  the 
slightest  doubt  as  to  my  own  "  unhappiness,"  and 
was  in  utter  despair,  although  I  myself  was  not 
able  to  discover  any  reasonable  pretext  for  my 
despair.  I  could  not  be  jealous  of  Prince  N***, 
and  whatever  merits  he  might  possess,  his  mere  ar- 
rival was   not   sufficient   instantly   to   extirpate 

39 


THE  DIARY  OF 

Liza's  inclination  for  me.  .  .  .  But  stay!— did 
that  inclination  exist?  I  recalled  the  past.  "  And 
the  stroll  in  the  forest?  "  I  asked  myself.  "  And 
the  expression  of  her  face  in  the  mirror?  "— 
"  But,"  I  went  on, — "  the  stroll  in  the  forest,  ap- 
parently. .  .  .  Phew,  good  heavens!  What  an 
insignificant  being  I  am!  "  I  exclaimed  aloud,  at 
last.  This  is  a  specimen  of  the  half -expressed, 
half -thought  ideas  which,  returning  a  thousand 
times,  re\'olved  in  a  monotonous  whirlwind  in  my 
head.  I  repeat,— I  returned  to  the  Ozhogins'  the 
same  mistrustful,  suspicious,  constrained  person 
that  I  had  been  from  my  childhood.  .  .  . 

I  found  the  whole  family  in  the  drawing-room ; 
BizmyonkofF  was  sitting  there  also,  in  one  corner. 
All  appeared  to  be  in  high  spirits:  Ozhogin,  in 
particular,  was  fairly  beaming,  and  his  first 
words  were  to  communicate  to  me  that  Prince 
N***  had  spent  the  whole  of  the  preceding  even- 
ing with  them. — "  Well,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  now 
I  understand  why  you  are  in  such  good  humour." 
I  must  confess  that  the  Prince's  second  call  puz- 
zled me.  I  had  not  expected  that.  Generally 
speaking,  people  like  me  expect  everything  in 
the  world  except  that  which  ought  to  happen  in 
the  ordinary  run  of  things.  I  sulked  and  as- 
sumed the  aspect  of  a  wounded,  but  magnani- 
mous man;  I  wanted  to  punish  Liza  for  her  un- 
graciousness; from  which,  moreover,  it  must  be 
concluded,  that,  nevertheless,  I  was  not  yet  in 

40 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

utter  despair.  They  say,  in  some  cases  when  you 
are  really  beloved,  it  is  even  advantageous  to 
torture  the  adored  object;  but  in  my  position, 
it  was  unutterably  stupid.  Liza,  in  the  most  in- 
nocent manner,  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  me. 
Only  old  Madame  Ozhogin  noticed  my  solemn 
taciturnity,  and  anxiously  inquired  after  my 
health.  Of  course  I  answered  her  with  a  bitter 
smile  that  "  I  was  perfectly  well,  thank  God." 
Ozhogin  continued  to  dilate  on  the  subject  of 
his  visitor;  but,  observing  that  I  answered  him 
reluctantly,  he  addressed  himself  chiefly  to  Biz- 
myonkoff,  who  was  listening  to  him  with  great 
attention,  when  a  footman  entered  and  an- 
nounced Prince  N***.  The  master  of  the  house 
instantly  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  rushed  forth 
to  welcome  him!  Liza,  on  whom  I  immediately 
darted  an  eagle  glance,  blushed  with  pleasure, 
and  fidgeted  about  on  her  chair.  The  Prince 
entered,  perfumed,  gay,  amiable.  .  .  . 

As  I  am  not  composing  a  novel  for  the  in- 
dulgent reader,  but  simply  writing  for  my  own 
pleasure,  there  is  no  necessity  for  my  having  re- 
course to  the  customary  devices  of  the  literary 
gentlemen.  So  I  will  say  at  once,  without  fur- 
ther procrastination,  that  Liza,  from  the  very 
first  day,  fell  passionately  in  love  with  the  Prince, 
and  the  Prince  fell  in  love  with  her— partly  for 
the  lack  of  anything  to  do,  but  also  partly  because 
Liza  really  was  a  very  charming  creature.    There 

41 


THE  DIARY  OF 

was  nothing  remarkable  in  the  fact  that  they  fell 
in  love  with  each  other.  He,  in  all  probability, 
had  not  in  the  least  expected  to  find  such  a  pearl 
in  such  a  wretched  shell  (I  am  speaking  of  the 
God-forsaken  town  of  O***) ,  and  she,  up  to  that 
time,  had  never  beheld,  even  in  her  dreams,  any- 
thing in  the  least  like  this  brilliant,  clever,  fasci- 
nating aristocrat. 

After  the  preliminary  greetings,  Ozhogin  in- 
troduced me  to  the  Prince,  who  treated  me  very 
politely.  As  a  rule,  he  was  polite  to  every 
one,  and  despite  the  incommensurable  distance 
which  existed  between  him  and  our  obscure  rural 
circle,  he  understood  not  only  how  to  avoid  em- 
barrassing any  one,  but  even  to  have  the  appear- 
ance of  being  our  equal,  and  of  only  happening 
to  live  in  St.  Petersburg. 

That  first  evening.  .  .  .  Oh,  that  first  even- 
ing! In  the  happy  days  of  our  childhood,  our 
teachers  used  to  narrate  to  us  and  hold  up  to  us 
as  an  example  of  manly  fortitude  the  young 
Lacedemonian  who,  having  stolen  a  fox  and  hid- 
den it  under  his  cloak,  never  once  uttered  a  sound, 
but  permitted  the  animal  to  devour  all  his  entrails, 
and  thus  preferred  death  to  dishonour.  ...  I 
can  find  no  better  expression  of  my  unutterable 
sufferings  in  the  course  of  that  evening,  when, 
for  the  first  time,  I  beheld  the  Prince  by  Liza's 
side.  My  persistent,  constrained  smile,  my  an- 
guished attention,  my  stupid  taciturnity,  my  pain- 

42 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

ful  and  vain  longing  to  depart,  all  this,  in  all 
probability,  was  extremely  noticeable  in  its  way. 
Not  one  fox  alone  was  ravaging  my  vitals — jeal- 
ousy, envy,  the  consciousness  of  my  own  insig- 
nificance, and  impotent  rage  were  rending  me. 
I  could  not  but  admit  that  the  Prince  was  really 
a  very  amiable  young  man.  ...  I  devoured  him 
with  my  eyes;  I  really  believe  that  I  forgot  to 
wink  as  I  gazed  at  him.  He  did  not  chat  with 
Liza  exclusively,  but,  of  course,  he  talked  for 
her  alone.  I  must  have  bored  him  extremely. 
....  He  probably  soon  divined  that  he  had  to 
do  with  a  discarded  lover,  but,  out  of  compassion 
for  me,  and  also  from  a  profound  sense  of  my 
perfect  harmlessness,  he  treated  me  with  extraor- 
dinary gentleness.  You  can  imagine  how  that 
hurt  me ! 

I  remember  that,  in  the  course  of  the  evening, 
I  tried  to  efface  my  fault ;  I  ( do  not  laugh  at  me, 
whoever  you  r^ay  be  under  whose  eyes  these 
lines  may  chance  to  fall,  especially  as  this  was  my 
final  dream)  ....  I  suddenly  took  it  into  my 
head,  God  is  my  witness,  among  the  varied  tor- 
ments, that  Liza  was  trying  to  punish  me  for  my 
arrogant  coldness  at  the  beginning  of  my  visit; 
that  she  was  angry  with  me,  and  was  flirting  with 
the  Prince  merely  out  of  vexation  at  me.  I 
seized  a  convenient  opportunity,  and  approach- 
ing her  with  a  meek  but  caressing  smile,  I  mur- 
mured: "Enough,  forgive  me  .  .  .  however,  I 

43 


THE  DIARY  OF 

do  not  ask  it  because  I  am  afraid  "—and  without 
awaiting  her  answer,  I  suddenly  imparted  to  my 
face  an  unusually  vivacious  and  easy  expression, 
gave  a  wry  laugh,  threw  my  hand  up  over  my 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  ceiling  (I  remember 
that  I  was  trying  to  adjust  my  neckcloth),  and 
was  even  on  the  point  of  wheeling  round  on  one 
foot,  as  much  as  to  say:  "All  is  over,  I  'm  in 
fine  spirits,  let  every  one  be  in  fine  spirits ! "  but 
I  did  not  wheel  round,  nevertheless,  because  I 
was  afraid  of  falling,  owing  to  an  unnatural 
stiiFness  in  my  knees.  .  .  Liza  did  not  under- 
stand me  in  the  least,  looked  into  my  face  with 
surprise,  smiled  hurriedly,  as  though  desirous  of 
getting  rid  of  me  as  promptly  as  possible,  and 
again  approached  the  Prince.  Blind  and  deaf 
as  I  was,  I  could  not  but  inwardly  admit  that  she 
was  not  at  all  angry  nor  vexed  with  me  at  that 
moment;  she  simply  was  not  thinking  about  me. 
The  blow  was  decisive,  my  last  hopes  crumbled 
to  ruin  with  a  crash — as  a  block  of  ice  pene- 
trated with  the  spring  sun  suddenly  crumbles 
into  tiny  fragments.  I  had  received  a  blow  on 
the  head  at  the  first  assault,  and,  like  the  Prus- 
sians at  Jena,  in  one  day  I  lost  everything.  No, 
she  was  not  angry  with  me !  .  .  . 

Alas!  on  the  contrary!  She  herself— I  could 
see  that — was  being  undermined,  as  with  a  bil- 
low. Like  a  young  sapling,  which  has  already 
half  deserted  the  bank,  she  bent  eagerly  forward 


A   SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

over  the  flood,  ready  to  suri'ender  to  it  both  the 
first  blossoming  of  her  spring,  and  her  whole  life. 
Any  one  to  whose  lot  it  has  fallen  to  be  a  witness 
to  such  an  infatuation  has  lived  through  bitter 
moments,  if  he  himself  loved  and  was  not  beloved. 
I  shall  forever  remember  the  devouring  atten- 
tion, the  tender  gaiety,  the  innocent  self-forget- 
fulness,  the  glance,  half -childish  and  already 
womanly,  the  happy  smile  which  blossomed  forth, 
as  it  were,  and  never  left  the  half -parted  hps 
and  the  blushing  cheeks.  .  .  .  Everything  of 
which  Liza  had  had  a  dim  foreboding  during  our 
stroll  in  the  grove  had  now  come  to  pass — and 
she,  surrendering  herself  wholly  to  love,  had,  at 
the  same  time,  grown  quiet  and  sparkling  like 
young  wine  which  has  ceased  to  ferment,  because 
its  time  has  come.  .  .  . 

I  had  the  patience  to  sit  out  that  first  evening, 
and  the  evenings  which  followed  ....  all,  to 
the  л^егу  end!  I  could  cherish  no  hope  whatso- 
ever. Liza  and  the  Prince  grew  more  and 
more  attached  to  each  other  with  every  day  that 

passed But  I  positively  lost  all  sense  of 

my  own  dignity,  and  could  not  tear  myself 
away  from  the  spectacle  of  my  unhappiness.  I 
remember  that  one  day  I  made  an  effort  not 
to  go,  gave  myself  my  word  of  honour  in  the 
morning  that  I  would  remain  at  home, — and 
at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  (I  usually 
went  out  at  seven),  I  jumped  up  like  a  lunatic, 

45 


THE  DIARY  OF 

put   on   my   hat,    and   ran,    panting,   to    Kirill 
Matvyeevitch's. 

My  position  was  extremely  awkward;  I  main- 
tained obdurate  silence,  and  sometimes  for  days 
at  a  stretch  never  uttered  a  sound.  I  have 
never  been  distinguished  for  eloquence,  as  I  have 
already  said;  but  now  every  bit  of  sense  I  had 
seemed  to  fly  away  in  the  presence  of  the  Prince, 
and  I  remained  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse. 
Moreover,  in  private,  I  forced  my  unhappy 
brain  to  toil  to  such  a  degree,  slowly  pondering 
over  everything  I  had  marked  or  noted  in  the 
course  of  the  preceding  day,  that  when  I  returned 
to  the  Ozhogins',  I  hardly  had  enough  strength 
left  to  continue  my  observations.  They  spared 
me  as  they  луоиИ  a  sick  man,  I  saw  that.  Every 
morning  I  reached  a  fresh,  definitive  decision, 
which  had  chiefly  been  hatched  out  during  a  sleep- 
less night.  Now  I  prepared  to  have  an  explana- 
tion with  Liza,  to  give  her  some  friendly  advice 
.  .  .  but  when  I  happened  to  be  alone  with  her, 
my  tongue  suddenly  ceased  to  act,  as  though  it 
had  congealed,  and  we  both  painfully  awaited 
the  appearance  of  a  third  person;  then,  again,  I 
wanted  to  flee,  for  good  and  all,  leaving  behind 
me,  for  the  object  of  my  afl'ections  of  course,  a 
letter  filled  with  reproaches;  and  one  day  I  set 
about  that  letter,  but  the  sense  of  justice  had  not 
yet  quite  vanished  from  within  me;  I  under- 
stood that  I  had  no  right  to  upbraid  any  one  for 

4i6 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

anything,  and  flung  my  note  into  the  fire;  again 
I  suddenly  offered  the  whole  of  myself  as  a  sac- 
rifice, in  magnanimous  fashion,  and  gave  Liza 
my  blessing,  wishing  her  happiness  in  her  love, 
and  smiled  in  a  gentle  and  friendly  way  on  the 
Prince  from  a  corner.  But  the  hard-hearted 
lovers  not  only  did  not  thank  me  for  my  sacrifice, 
they  did  not  even  perceive  it,  and  evidently  stood 
in  no  need  either  of  my  blessings  or  of  my  smiles. 
.  .  .  Then,  with  vexation,  I  suddenly  passed 
over  into  the  diametrically  opposite  frame  of 
mind.  I  promised  myself,  as  I  swathed  myself 
in  my  cloak,  Spanish  fashion,  to  cut  the  lucky 
rival's  throat  from  round  a  corner,  and  with  the 
joy  of  a  wild  beast,  I  pictured  to  myself  Liza's 
despair.  .  .  .  But,  in  the  first  place,  in  the  town 
of  O***  there  were  very  few  such  corners,  and, 
in  the  second  place,  a  board  fence,  a  street-lan- 
tern, a  policeman  in  the  distance.  .  .  .  No !  at  such 
a  corner  as  that  it  would  be  more  seemly  to  peddle 
rings  of  bread  than  to  shed  human  blood.  I 
must  confess  that,  among  other  means  of  deliv- 
erance,— as  I  very  indefinitely  expressed  it  when 
holding  a  conference  with  myself, — I  thought  of 
appealing  straight  to  Mr.  Ozhogin  ....  of 
directing  the  attention  of  that  nobleman  to 
the  dangerous  position  of  his  daughter,  to  the 
sad  consequences  of  her  frivolity.  ...  I  even 
began  to  talk  with  him  one  day  on  the  very 
ticklish  subject,  but  framed  my  speech  so  craftily 

47 


THE  DIARY  OF 

and  obscurely,  that  he  listened  and  listened  to  me, 
and  suddenly,  as  though  awaking  from  sleep, 
swiftly  rubbed  the  palm  of  his  hand  all  over  his 
face,  not  sparing  even  his  nose,  snorted,  and 
walked  away  from  me. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that,  on  adopting  that  de- 
cision, I  assured  myself  that  I  was  acting  from 
the  most  disinterested  motives,  that  I  was  de- 
sirous of  the  universal  welfare,  that  I  was  ful- 
filling the  duty  of  a  friend  of  the  family. .  .  .  But 
I  venture  to  think  that  even  if  KiriU  Matvyee- 
vitch  had  not  cut  short  my  effusions,  I  should  still 
have  lacked  the  courage  to  finish  my  monologue. 
I  sometimes  undertook,  with  the  pompousness  of 
an  ancient  sage,  to  weigh  the  Prince's  merits;  I 
sometimes  comforted  myself  with  the  hope  that 
it  was  merely  a  passing  fancy,  that  Liza  would 
come  to  her  senses,  that  her  love  was  not  genuine 
love.  .  .  .  Oh,  no !  In  a  word,  I  do  not  know  of 
a  thought  over  which  I  did  not  brood  at  that  time. 
One  remedy  alone,  I  frankly  confess,  never  en- 
tered my  head ;  namely,  it  never  once  occurred  to 
me  to  commit  suicide.  Why  that  did  not  occur 
to  me,  I  do  not  know.  .  .  .  Perhaps  even  then 
I  had  a  foreboding  that  I  had  not  long  to  live  in 
any  case. 

It  is  easy  to  understand  that,  under  such  un- 
toward conditions,  my  conduct,  my  behaviour  to- 
ward other  people,  was  more  characterised  by 
unnaturalness  and  constraint  than  ever.  Even  old 

48 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

lady  Ozhogin — that  dull-witted  being — began  to 
shun  me,  and  at  times  did  not  know  from  which 
side  to  approach  me.  Bizmyonkoff ,  always  cour- 
teous and  ready  to  be  of  service,  avoided  me.  It 
also  seemed  to  me  then  that  in  him  I  had  a  fellow- 
sufferer,  that  he  also  loved  Liza.  But  he  never 
replied  to  my  hints,  and,  in  general,  talked  to  me 
with  reluctance.  The  Prince  behaved  in  a  very 
friendly  manner  to  him;  I  may  say  that  the 
Prince  respected  him.  Neither  Bizmyonkoff 
nor  I  interfered  with  the  Prince  and  Liza;  but 
he  did  not  shun  them  as  I  did,  he  did  not  look 
like  a  wolf  nor  like  a  victim — and  gladly  joined 
them  whenever  they  wished  it.  He  did  not  dis- 
tinguish himself  particularly  by  jocularity  on 
such  occasions,  it  is  true;  but  even  in  times  past 
there  had  been  a  quiet  element  in  his  mirth. 

In  this  manner  about  two  weeks  passed.  The 
Prince  was  not  only  good-looking  and  clever:  he 
played  on  the  piano,  sang,  drew  very  respectably, 
and  knew  how  to  narrate  well.  His  anecdotes, 
drawn  from  the  highest  circles  of  society  in  the 
capital,  always  produced  a  strong  impression  on 
the  hearers,  which  was  all  the  more  powerful 
because  he  himself  did  not  seem  to  attribute  any 
particular  importance  to  them.  .  .  . 

The  consequence  of  this  guile,  if  you  choose  to 
call  it  so,  on  the  Prince's  part  was,  that  in  the 
course  of  his  brief  sojourn  in  the  town  of  O*** 
he  absolutely  bewitched  the  whole  of  society  there. 

49 


THE  DIARY  OF 

It  is  always  very  easy  for  a  man  from  the  highest 
circles  to  bewitch  us  steppe-dwellers.  The 
Prince's  frequent  calls  on  the  Ozhogins  (he  spent 
his  evenings  at  their  house) ,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
aroused  the  envy  of  the  other  nobles  and  officials ; 
but  the  Prince,  being  a  man  of  the  world  and 
clever,  did  not  neglect  a  single  one  of  them, 
called  on  all  of  them,  said  at  least  one  pleasant 
word  to  all  the  dames  and  young  ladies,  permitted 
himself  to  be  stuffed  with  laboriously-heavy 
viands  and  treated  to  vile  wines  with  magnificent 
appellations;  in  a  word,  behaved  himself  admir- 
ably, cautiously,  and  cleverly.  Prince  N***  was, 
altogether,  a  man  of  cheerful  disposition,  socia- 
ble, amiable  by  inclination,  and  as  a  matter  of  cal- 
culation also:  how  was  it  possible  for  him  to 
be  otherwise  than  a  complete  success  in  every 
way? 

From  the  time  of  his  arrival,  every  one  in  the 
house  had  thought  that  the  time  flew  by  with  re- 
markable swiftness;  everything  went  splendidly; 
old  Ozhogin,  although  he  pretended  not  to  notice 
anything,  was,  in  all  probability,  secretly  rub- 
bing his  hands  at  the  thought  of  having  such  a 
son-in-law.  The  Prince  himself  was  conducting 
the  whole  affair  very  quietly  and  decorously, 
when,  all  of  a  sudden,  an  unforeseen  event  .... 

Until  to-morrow.  To-day  I  am  weary.  These 
reminiscences  chafe  me,  even  on  the  brink  of  the 
grave.    Terentievna  thought  to-day  that  my  nose 

50 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

had  grown  even  more  pointed;  and  that  's  a  bad 
sign,  they  say. 

March  27.  The  thaw  continues. 
Matters  were  in  the  above-described  condition: 
the  Prince  and  Liza  loved  each  other,  the  elder 
Ozhogins  were  waiting  to  see  what  would  hap- 
pen; Bizmyonkoff  was  present  also — nothing 
else  could  be  said  of  him;  I  was  flopping  like  a 
fish  on  the  ice,  and  keeping  watch  to  the  best  of 
my  ability, — I  remember  that  at  that  time  I  ap- 
pointed to  myself  the  task  of  at  least  not  allow- 
ing Liza  to  perish  in  the  snare  of  the  seducer,  and 
in  consequence  thereof,  I  had  begun  to  pay  par- 
ticular attention  to  the  maid-servants  and  the 
fatal  "  back  "  entrance — although,  on  the  other 
hand,  I  sometimes  dreamed  for  whole  nights  to- 
gether about  the  touching  magnanimity  with 
which,  in  the  course  of  time,  I  would  extend  my 
hand  to  the  deluded  victim  and  say  to  her:  "  The 
wily  man  has  betrayed  thee;  but  I  am  thy  faith- 
ful friend.  ...  let  us  forget  the  past  and  be 
happy!" — when,  suddenly,  a  joyful  piece  of 
news  was  disseminated  throughout  the  town:  the 
Marshal  of  Nobility  for  the  county  intended  to 
give  a  large  ball  in  honour  of  the  respected  visi- 
tor, at  his  own  estate  Gornostaevka,  also  called 
Gubnyakova.  All  the  hierarchies  and  powers  of 
the  town  of  O***  received  invitations,  beginning 
with  the  chief  of  police  and  ending  with  the 

51 


THE  DIARY  OF 

apothecary,  a  remarkably  pimple-faced  German, 
with  cruel  pretensions  to  the  ability  to  speak  Rus- 
sian purely,  in  consequence  of  which,  he  was  con- 
stantly using  violent  expressions  with  absolute 
inappropriateness,  as,  for  instance:  "Devil  take 
me,  I  feel  a  dashing  fine  fellow  to-day."  ^  .  .  . 
Terrible  preparations  began,  as  was  fitting. 
One  cosmetic-shop  sold  sixteen  dark -blue  jars  of 
pomade,  with  the  inscription,  "  a  la  jesmin  "  with 
the  Russian  character  denoting  the  hard  pronun- 
ciation after  the  n.  The  young  ladies  supplied 
themselves  with  stiff  gowns,  torturingly  tight 
at  the  waist-line,  and  with  promontories  on  the 
stomach ;  the  mammas  erected  on  their  own  heads 
formidable  decorations,  under  the  pretext  that 
they  were  caps;  the  bustling  fathers  lay  without 
their  hind  legs,  as  the  saying  is.^  .  .  . 

The  longed-for  day  arrived  at  last.  I  was 
among  those  invited.  The  distance  from  the 
town  to  Gornostaevka  was  reckoned  at  nine 
versts.  Kirila  Matл^yёeлdtch  offered  me  a  seat 
in  his  carriage;  but  I  declined.  .  .  .  Thus  do 
chastised  children,  desirous  of  revenging  them- 
selves well  on  their  parents,  refuse  their  favourite 
viands  at  table.  JNIoreover,  I  felt  that  my  pres- 
ence would  embarrass  Liza.  Bizmyonkoff  took 
my  place.  The  Prince  drove  out  in  his  own 
calash,  I  in  a  miserable  drozhky,  which  I  had 

^  The  pronunciation  is  also  indicated  as  being  faulty.— Translatok, 
2  Ran  themselves  off  their  legs-— Teanslatoe. 

52 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

hired  at  an  exorbitant  price  for  this  festive  oc- 
casion. 

I  will  not  describe  the  ball.  Everything  about 
it  was  as  usual:  musicians  with  remarkably  false 
horns  in  the  gallery;  flustered  landed  proprie- 
tors with  antiquated  families;  lilac  ice-cream, 
slimy  orgeat;  men  in  patched  boots  and  knitted 
cotton  gloves;  provincial  lions  with  convulsively- 
distorted  faces;  and  so  forth,  and  so  forth.  And 
all  this  little  world  circled  round  its  sun — round 
the  Prince.  Lost  in  the  throng,  unnoticed  even 
by  the  maidens  of  eight-and-forty  with  pimples 
on  their  brows  and  blue  flowers  on  their  temples, 
I  kept  incessantly  gazing  now  at  the  Prince,  now 
at  Liza.  She  was  very  charmingly  dressed  and 
very  pretty  that  evening.  They  only  danced  to- 
gether twice  (he  danced  the  mazurka  ^  with  her, 
't  is  true!),  but,  at  all  events,  so  it  seemed  to 
Trie,  there  existed  between  them  a  certain  mys- 
terious, unbroken  communication.  Even  when 
he  was  not  looking  at  her,  was  not  talking 
to  her,  he  seemed  constantly  to  be  addressing  her, 
and  her  alone;  he  was  handsome  and  brilliant, 
and  charming  with  others — for  her  alone.  She 
was  evidently  conscious  that  she  was  the  queen  of 
the  ball — and  beloved;  her  face  simultaneously 
beamed  with  childish  joy  and  innocent  pride,  and 

1  The  mazurka,  which  is  still  a  great  favourite  in  Russia,  greatly 
resembles  the  cotillon  in  everything  except  the  steps,  which  are  viva- 
cious. Both  the  cotillon  and  the  mazurka  are  danced — one  before, 
the  other  after  supper— at  Court  balls  and  other  dances.  — Translator. 

53 


THE  DIARY  OF 

then  suddenly  was  lighted  up  with  a  different,  a 
more  profound  feeling.  She  exhaled  an  atmos- 
phere of  happiness.  I  observed  all  this.  ...  It 
was  not  the  first  time  I  had  had  occasion  to  watch 
them.  .  .  .  At  first  this  greatly  pained  me,  then 
it  seemed  to  touch  me,  and  at  last  it  enraged  me. 
I  suddenly  felt  myself  remarkably  malicious  and, 
I  remember,  I  rejoiced  wonderfully  over  this  new 
sensation,  and  even  conceived  a  certain  respect 
for  myself.  "  Let  's  show  them  that  we  have  n't 
perished  yet!  "  I  said  to  myself.  When  the  first 
sounds  summoning  to  the  mazurka  thundered 
out,  I  calmly  glanced  around,  coldly,  and  with 
much  ease  of  manner,  approached  a  long-faced 
young  lady  with  a  red  and  shining  nose,  an  awk- 
wardly gaping  mouth,  which  looked  as  though 
it  had  been  unhooked,  and  a  sinewy  neck,  which 
reminded  one  of  the  handle  of  a  bass-viol, — ap- 
proached her,  and  curtly  clicking  my  heels  to- 
gether, invited  her  for  the  dance.  She  wore  a 
pink  gown,  which  seemed  to  have  faded  recently 
and  not  quite  completely;  above  her  head  quiv- 
ered some  sort  of  a  faded  melancholy  fly  on  a 
very  thick  brass  spring;  and,  altogether,  the 
young  woman  was  impregnated  through  and 
through,  if  one  may  so  express  one's  self,  with  a 
sort  of  sour  boredom  and  antiquated  ill-success. 
From  the  very  beginning  of  the  evening,  she  had 
not  stirred  from  her  seat;  no  one  had  thought  of 
asking  her  to  dance.    One  sixteen-year-old  youth, 

54 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

in  default  of  any  other  partner,  had  been  on  the 
point  of  appealing  to  this  young  woman,  and  had 
already  taken  one  step  in  her  direction,  but  had 
bethought  himself,  taken  one  look,  and  briskly 
concealed  himself  in  the  crowd.  You  can  im- 
agine with  what  joyful  surprise  she  accepted  my 
proposal ! 

I  solemnly  led  her  the  whole  length  of  the  hall, 
found  two  chairs,  and  seated  myself  with  her  in 
the  circle  of  the  mazurka,  the  tenth  pair,  almost 
opposite  the  Prince,  to  whom,  of  course,  the  first 
place  had  been  conceded.  The  Prince,  as  I  have 
already  said,  was  dancing  with  Liza.  Neither 
my  partner  nor  I  were  incommoded  with  invita- 
tions; consequently,  we  had  plenty  of  time  for 
conversation.  Truth  to  tell,  my  lady  was  not  dis- 
tinguished by  ability  to  utter  words  in  coherent 
speech:  she  employed  her  mouth  more  for  the 
execution  of  a  strange  downward  smile,  hitherto 
unbeheld  by  me;  at  the  same  time,  she  rolled  her 
eyes  upward,  as  though  some  invisible  force  were 
stretching  her  face;  but  I  had  no  need  of  her 
eloquence.  Fortunately,  I  felt  vicious,  and  my 
partner  did  not  inspire  me  with  timidity.  I  set 
to  criticising  everything  and  everybody  in  the 
world,  laying  special  stress  on  whipper-snappers 
from  the  capital,  and  Petersburg  fops,  and 
waxed  so  angry,  at  last,  that  my  lady  gradually 
ceased  to  smile,  and  instead  of  rolling  her  eyes 
upward,  she  suddenly  began — with  amazement, 

55 


THE  DIARY  OF 

it  must  have  been — to  look  cross-eyed,  and  in 
such  a  queer  way,  to  boot,  as  though  she  had  per- 
ceived, for  the  first  time,  that  she  had  a  nose 
on  her  face ;  and  my  next  neighbour,  one  of  those 
Hons  of  whom  I  have  spoken  above,  more  than 
once  scanned  me  with  a  glance,  even  turned  to 
me  with  the  expression  of  an  actor  on  the  stage 
>vho  has  waked  up  in  an  unknown  land,  as  much 
as  to  say:  "  Art  thou  still  at  it?  "  However,  while 
I  sang  like  a  nightingale,  as  the  saying  is,  I  still 
continued  to  watch  the  Prince  and  Liza.  They 
were  constantly  invited ;  but  I  suffered  less  when 
both  of  them  were  dancing;  and  even  when  they 
were  sitting  side  by  side  and  chatting  with  each 
other,  and  smiling  with  that  gentle  smile  which 
refuses  to  leave  the  face  of  happy  lovers, — even 
then  I  was  not  so  greatly  pained ;  but  when  Liza 
was  fluttering  through  the  hall  with  some  gallant 
dandy,  and  the  Prince,  with  her  blue  gauze  scarf 
on  his  knees,  thoughtfully  followed  her  with  his 
eyes,  as  though  admiring  his  conquest, — then, 
oh,  then  I  experienced  unbearable  tortures,  and 
in  my  vexation  I  emitted  such  mahcious  remarks, 
that  the  pupils  of  my  partner's  eyes  reclined  com- 
pletely from  both  sides,  on  her  nose! 

In  the  meantime,  the  mazurka  was  drawing  to 
a  close.  .  .  .  They  began  to  execute  the  figure 
known  as  "la  confidente."  In  this  figure  the 
lady  seats  herself  in  the  centre  of  the  circle, 
chooses    another    lady    for   her    confidante    and 

56 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

whispers  in  her  ear  the  name  of  the  gentleman 
with  whom  she  wishes  to  dance ;  the  cavaHer  leads 
up  to  her  the  dancers,  one  by  one,  and  the  con- 
fidante refuses  them  until,  at  last,  the  happy 
man  who  has  already  been  designated  makes  his 
appearance.  Liza  sat  in  the  centre  of  the  circle, 
and  chose  the  daughter  of  the  hostess,  one  of 
those  young  girls  of  whom  it  is  said  that  they  are 
"  God  bless  them."  ^  The  Prince  began  to  search 
for  the  chosen  man.  In  vain  did  he  present  about 
half  a  score  of  young  men  (the  hostess'  daughter 
refused  them  all,  with  a  pleasant  smile) ,  and,  at 
last,  had  recourse  to  me.  Something  unusual 
took  place  in  me  at  that  moment:  I  seemed  to 
wink  with  my  whole  body,  and  tried  to  decline; 
nevertheless,  I  rose  and  went.  The  Prince  con- 
ducted me  to  Liza.  .  .  .  She  did  not  even  glance 
at  me;  the  hostess'  daughter  shook  her  head  in 
negation,  the  Prince  turned  toward  me,  and, 
prompted  probably  by  the  goose-like  expression 
of  my  face,  made  me  a  profound  bow.  This 
mocking  reverence,  this  refusal,  presented  to  me 
by  my  triumphant  rival,  his  negligent  smile, 
Liza's  indifferent  inattention, — all  this  provoked 
an  explosion  on  my  part.  I  stepped  up  to  the 
Prince  and  whispered  in  a  frenzied  rage :  "I 
think  you  are  permitting  yourself  to  jeer  at  me?  " 
The  Prince  stared  at  me  with  scornful  sur- 
prise, again  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  with  the  air 

^  Utterly  insignificant.— Translator. 

57 


THE  DIARY  OF 

of  leading  me  back  to  my  seat,  replied  coldly: 
"  I?  " 

"Yes,  you,  you!" — I  went  on  in  a  whisper, 
obeying  him,  nevertheless ;  that  is  to  say,  follow- 
ing him  to  my  seat ; — "  j^u !  But  I  do  not  intend 
to  allow  any  frivolous  Petersburg  upstart  .  .  ." 

The  Prince  smiled  calmly,  almost  patronis- 
ingly,  gripped  my  hand  hard,  whispered:  "I 
understand  you ;  but  this  is  not  the  proper  place ; 
we  will  talk  it  over,"  turned  away  from  me, 
approached  BizmyonkofF  and  led  him  to  Liza. 
The  pale  little  petty  official  proved  to  be  the 
chosen  cavalier.     Liza  rose  to  meet  him. 

As  I  sat  beside  my  partner  with  the  melancholy 
fly  on  her  head,  I  felt  myself  almost  a  hero.  My 
heart  thumped  violently  within  me,  my  bosom 
swelled  nobly  under  my  starched  shirt-front,  my 
breath  came  fast  and  deep — and  all  of  a  sudden, 
I  stared  at  the  adjacent  lion  in  so  magnificent 
a  manner,  that  he  involuntarily  wiggled  the  leg 
which  was  turned  toward  me.  Having  rid  my- 
self of  this  man,  I  ran  my  eyes  over  the  circle 
of  dancers.  ...  It  seemed  to  me  that  two  or 
three  gentlemen  were  gazing  at  me  not  without 
amazement;  but,  on  the  whole,  my  conversation 
with  the  Prince  had  not  been  noticed.  .  .  .  My 
rival  was  already  seated  on  his  chair,  perfectly 
composed,  and  with  his  former  smile  on  his  face. 
BizmyonkoiF  led  Liza  to  her  place.  She  gave 
him  a  friendly  nod  and  immediately  turned  to 

58 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

the  Prince,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  with  a  certain 
anxiety;  but  he  laughed  in  response,  waved  his 
hand  gracefully,  and  must  have  said  something 
very  agreeable  to  her,  for  she  flushed  all  over 
with  pleasure,  dropped  her  eyes,  and  then  riveted 
them  on  him  once  more  with  affectionate  re- . 
proach. 

The  heroic  frame  of  mind  which  had  suddenly 
developed  in  me  did  not  disappear  until  the  end 
of  the  mazurka;  but  I  made  no  more  jests,  and 
did  not  criticise,  and  merely  cast  a  severe  and 
gloomy  glance  from  time  to  time  at  my  lady, 
who  was,  evidently,  beginning  to  be  afraid  of 
me,  and  was  reduced  to  a  state  of  complete  stam- 
mering and  winked  incessantly,  when  I  led  her 
to  the  natural  stronghold  of  her  mother,  a  very 
fat  woman  with  a  red  head-dress.  Having 
handed  over  the  frightened  young  girl  as  be- 
hooved me,  I  walked  oiF  to  the  window,  clasped 
my  hands,  and  waited  to  see  what  would 
happen.  I  waited  a  good  while.  The  Prince  was 
constantly  surrounded  by  the  host, — precisely 
that,  surrounded,  as  England  is  surrounded  by 
the  sea, — not  to  mention  the  other  members  of  the 
county  Marshal  of  the  Nobility's  family,  and 
the  other  guests;  and,  moreover,  he  could  not, 
without  arousing  universal  surprise,  approach 
such  an  insignificant  man  as  I,  and  enter  into 
conversation  with  him.  This  insignificance  of 
mine,  I  remember,  was  even  a  source  of  delight 

59 


THE  DIARY  OF 

to  me  then.  "Fiddlesticks!"  I  thought,  as  I 
watched  him  turning  courteously  now  to  one,  now 
to  another  respected  personage  who  sought  the 
honour  of  being  noticed  by  him,  if  only  for  "  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,"  as  the  poets  say: — "  Fiddle- 
sticks, my  dear  fellow !  .  .  .  .  Thou  wilt  come  to 
me  by  and  by — for  I  have  insulted  thee." 

At  last  the  Prince,  having  cleverly  got  rid  of 
the  crowd  of  his  adorers,  strode  past  me,  darted 
a  glance,  not  exactly  at  the  window,  nor  yet 
exactly  at  my  hair,  was  on  the  point  of  turning 
away,  and  suddenly  came  to  a  halt,  as  though 
he  had  just  remembered  something. 

"  Akh,  yes!" — he  said,  addressing  me  with  a 
smile;— "by  the  way,  I  have  a  little  matter  of 
business  with  you." 

Two  landed  proprietors,  the  most  persistent 
of  all,  who  were  obstinately  following  up  the 
Prince,  probably  thought  that  the  "  little  matter 
of  business  "  was  connected  with  the  service,  and 
respectfully  retreated.  The  Prince  put  his  arm 
in  mine,  and  led  me  to  one  side.  My  heart 
thumped  in  my  breast. 

"  You," — he  began,  drawling  out  the  word 
yoUj  and  staring  at  my  chin  with  a  contemptu- 
ous expression  which,  strange  to  say,  was  infi- 
nitely becoming  to  his  fresh,  handsome  face, — 
"  you  said  something  insolent  to  me,  I  believe." 

"  I  said  what  I  thought,"— I  retorted,  raising 
my  voice. 

60 


A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

"  Ssssh  ....  speak  more  quietty," — he  re- 
marked:— "well-bred  men  do  not  shout.  Per- 
haps you  would  like  to  fight  with  me?  " 

"  That  is  your  affair,"— I  repHed,  drawing 
myself  up. 

"  I  shall  be  compelled  to  call  you  out,"— he 
said  carelessly,—"  if  you  do  not  withdraw  your 
expressions.  .  .  ." 

"  I  have  no  intention  of  withdrawing  any- 
thing,"—I  retorted  proudly. 

"  Really?  " — he  remarked,  not  without  a  sneer- 
ing smile. — "  In  that  case," — he  went  on,  after  a 
brief  pause, — "  I  shall  have  the  honour  to  send 
my  second  to  you  to-morrow." 

"  Very  well,  sir," — I  said  in  the  most  indiffer- 
ent tone  I  could  muster. 

The  Prince  bowed  slightly. 

"  I  cannot  forbid  you  to  think  me  a  frivolous 
man," — he  added,  arrogantly  narrowing  his  eyes; 
— "  but  it  is  impossible  that  the  Princes  N*** 
should  be  upstarts.  Farewell  for  the  present, 
Mr.  .  .  .  Mr.  Shtukaturin." 

He  quickly  turned  his  back  on  me,  and  again 
approached  his  host,  who  had  already  begun  to 
grow  agitated. 

"  Mr.  Shtukaturin "!....  My  name  is 
Tchulkaturin.  ...  I  could  find  no  reply  to  make 
to  this  last  insult  of  his,  and  only  stared  after  him 
in  a  violent  rage. — "  Farewell  until  to-morrow," 
I  whispered,  setting  my  teeth,  and  immediately 

61 


THE  DIARY  OF 

hunted  up  an  officer  of  my  acquaintance,  Captain 
KoloberdyaefF  of  the  uhlans,  a  desperate  ca- 
rouser  and  a  splendid  fellow,  narrated  to  him  in 
a  few  words  my  quarrel  with  the  Prince,  and 
asked  him  to  be  my  second.  He,  of  course,  im- 
mediately consented,  and  I  wended  my  way 
homeward. 

I  could  not  get  to  sleep  all  night — from  agi- 
tation, not  from  pusillanimity.  I  am  no  cow- 
ard. I  even  thought  very  little  indeed  about  the 
impending  possibility  of  losing  my  life,  that  high- 
est good  on  earth,  according  to  the  Germans. 
I  thought  of  Liza  only,  of  my  dead  hopes,  of 
what  I  ought  to  do.  "  Ought  I  to  try  to  kill  the 
Prince?  "  I  asked  myself,  and,  of  course,  wanted 
to  kill  him, — not  out  of  vengeance,  but  out  of  a 
desire  for  Liza's  good.  "  But  she  will  not  sur- 
vive that  blow,"  I  went  on.  "  No,  it  will  be  better 
to  let  him  kill  me!  " 

I  confess  that  it  was  also  pleasant  to  me  to 
think  that  I,  an  obscure  man  from  the  country, 
had  forced  so  important  a  personage  to  fight  a 
duel  with  me. 

Dawn  found  me  engrossed  in  these  cogita- 
tions; and  later  in  the  morning,  KoloberdyaefF 
presented  himself. 

"  Well,"— he  asked  me,  noisily  entering  my 
bedroom,—"  and  where  's  the  Prince's  second?  " 

"  Why,  good  gracious!  " — I  replied  with  vexa- 
tion,— "  it 's    only    seven    o'clock    in    the   morn- 

62 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

ing  now;  I  presume  the  Prince  is  still  fast 
asleep." 

"  In  that  case,"— returned  the  irrepressible 
cavalry-captain, — "  order  them  to  give  me  some 
tea.  I  have  a  headache  from  last  night's  doings. 
....  I  have  n't  even  been  undressed.  How- 
ever,"—he  added  with  a  yawn,—"  I  rarely  do 
undress  anyway." 

Tea  was  served  to  him.  He  drank  six  glasses 
with  rum,  smoked  four  pipes,  told  me  that  on  the 
preceding  day  he  had  bought  for  a  song  a  horse 
which  the  coachmen  had  given  up  as  a  bad  job, 
and  intended  to  break  it  in  by  tying  up  one  of 
its  forelegs, — and  fell  asleep,  without  undress- 
ing, on  the  couch,  with  his  pipe  still  in  his  mouth. 
I  rose,  and  put  my  papers  in  order.  One  note 
of  invitation  from  Liza,  the  only  note  I  had  re- 
ceived from  her,  I  was  on  the  point  of  putting 
in  my  breast,  but  changed  my  mind,  and  tossed 
it  into  a  box.  KoloberdyaefF  лvas  snoring  faintly, 
with  his  head  hanging  down  from  the  leather 
cushions.  ...  I  remember  that  I  surveyed  for  a 
long  time  his  dishevelled,  dashing,  care-free  and 
kindly  face.  At  ten  o'clock  my  servant  an- 
nounced the  arrival  of  BizmyonkofF.  The  Prince 
had  selected  him  for  his  second. 

Together  we  roused  the  soundly-sleeping  cap- 
tain. He  rose,  stared  at  us  with  eyes  owlishly 
stupid  from  sleep,  and  in  a  hoarse  voice  asked 
for  vodka;— he  recovered  himself,  and  after  hav- 

63 


THE  DIARY  OF 

ing  exchanged  salutes  with  Bizmyonkoff,  went 
out  with  him  into  the  next  room  for  consultation. 
The  conference  of  the  seconds  did  not  last  long. 
A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  they  both  came  to  me 
in  my  bedroom;  KoloberdyaefF  announced  to  me 
that  "  we  shall  fight  to-day,  at  three  o'clock,  Math 
pistols."  I  silentlj^  bowed  my  head,  in  token  of 
assent.  BizmyonkoiF  immediately  took  leave  of 
us,  and  drove  away.  He  w^as  somewhat  pale  and 
inwardly  agitated,  like  a  man  who  is  not  accus- 
tomed to  that  sort  of  performance,  but  was  very 
polite  and  cold.  I  seemed,  somehow,  to  feel 
ashamed  in  his  presence,  and  I  did  not  dare  to 
look  him  in  the  eye. 

Koloberdyaeff  began  to  talk  about  his  horse 
again.  This  conversation  was  л^егу  much  to  my 
taste.  I  was  afraid  he  might  mention  Liza.  But 
my  good  captain  was  no  scandal-monger,  and, 
more  than  that,  he  despised  all  women,  calling 
them,  God  knows  why,  "  salad."  At  two  o'clock 
we  lunched,  and  at  three  were  already  on  the  field 
of  action — in  that  same  birch-grove  where  I  had 
once  strolled  лvith  Liza,  a  couple  of  paces  from 
that  cliff. 

We  were  the  first  to  arrive.  But  the  Prince 
and  Bizmyonkoff  did  not  make  us  wait  long  for 
them.  The  Prince  was,  without  exaggeration, 
as  fresh  as  a  rose ;  his  brown  eyes  gazed  out  with 
extreme  affability  from  beneath  the  visor  of  his 
military  cap.     He  was  smoking  a  straw  cigar, 

64i 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

and  on  catching  sight  of  Koloberdyaeff  he  shook 
hands  with  him  in  a  cordial  manner.  He  even 
bowed  very  charmingly  to  me.  I,  on  the  con- 
trary, felt  conscious  that  I  Avas  pale,  and  my 
hands,  to  my  intense  vexation,  were  trembling 
slightly;  .  .  .  my  throat  was  dry.  .  .  Never,  up 
to  that  time,  had  I  fought  a  duel.  "  О  God!  " 
I  thought;  "if  only  that  sneering  gentleman 
does  not  take  my  agitation  for  timidity!  "  I  in- 
wardly consigned  my  nerves  to  all  the  fiends ;  but 
on  glancing,  at  last,  straight  at  the  Prince's 
face,  and  catching  on  his  lips  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible smile,  I  suddenly  became  inflated  with 
wrath,  and  immediately  recovered  my  equanim- 

ity. 

In  the  meantime,  our  seconds  had  arranged 
the  barrier,  had  paced  off  the  distance,  and 
loaded  the  pistols.  Koloberdyaeff  did  most  of 
the  active  part;  Bizmyonkoff  chiefly  watched 
him.  It  was  a  magnificent  day — quite  equal  to 
the  day  of  the  never-to-be-forgotten  stroll.  The 
dense  azure  of  the  sky  again  peeped  through  the 
gilded  green  of  the  leaves.  Their  rustling 
seemed  to  excite  me.  The  Prince  continued  to 
smoke  his  cigar,  as  he  leaned  his  shoulder  against 
the  trunk  of  a  linden.  .  .  . 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  take  your  places,  gentlemen ; 
all  is  ready," — said  Koloberdyaeff  at  last,  hand- 
ing us  the  pistols. 

The  Prince  retreated  a  few  paces,  halted,  and 

65 


THE  DIARY  OF 

turning  his  head  back  over  his  shoulder,  asked 
me:  "  And  do  you  still  refuse  to  withdraw  your 
words?  "...  I  tried  to  answer  him;  but  my  voice 
failed  me,  and  I  contented  myself  with  a  dis- 
dainful motion  of  the  hand.  The  Prince  laughed 
again,  and  took  his  place.  We  began  to  approach 
each  other.  I  raised  my  pistol,  and  was  on  the 
point  of  taking  aim  at  the  breast  of  my  enemy,— 
at  that  moment  he  really  лvas  my  enemy, — but 
suddenly  elevated  the  barrel,  as  though  some  one 
had  jogged  my  elbow,  and  fired.  The  Prince 
staggered,  raised  his  left  hand  to  his  left  temple 
— a  thin  stream  of  blood  trickled  down  his  cheek 
from  beneath  his  white  wash-leather  glove.  Biz- 
myonkofF  flew  to  him. 

"  It  is  nothing," — he  said,  taking  off  his  cap, 
which  had  been  perforated; — "  if  it  did  not  enter 
my  head,  that  means  it  is  only  a  scratch." 

He  calmly  pulled  a  batiste  handkerchief  from 
his  pocket,  and  laid  it  on  his  curls,  which  were  wet 
Avith  blood.  I  looked  at  him  as  though  petrified, 
and  did  not  stir  from  the  spot. 

"  Please  go  to  the  barrier!  "—remarked  Kolo- 
berdyaefF  to  me  with  severity. 

I  obeyed. 

"  Shall  the  duel  go  on?  "—he  added,  address- 
ing Bizmyonkofl*. 

BizmyonkofF  made  him  no  reply;  but  the 
Prince,  without  removing  the  handkerchief  from 
the  wound,  nor  even  giving  himself  the  satis- 

66 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

faction  of  teasing  me  at  the  barrier,  replied  with 
a  smile:  "  The  duel  is  ended,"  and  fired  into  the 
air.  I  nearly  wept  with  vexation  and  rage.  That 
man,  by  his  magnanimity,  had  definitively  tram- 
pled me  in  the  mud,  had  cut  my  throat.  I  wanted 
to  protest,  I  wanted  to  demand  that  he  should 
fire  at  me ;  but  he  stepped  up  to  me,  and  offering 
me  his  hand,  "  Everything  is  forgotten  between 
us,  is  it  not?  " — he  said,  in  a  cordial  voice. 

I  cast  a  glance  at  his  pale  face,  at  that  blood- 
stained handkerchief,  and  utterly  losing  my  head, 
blushing  лvith  shame,  and  annihilated,  I  pressed 
his  hand.  .  . 

"  Gentlemen!  " — he  added,  addressing  the  sec- 
onds:—"I  hope  that  all  this  will  remain  a 
secret  ? " 

"Of  course!  "—exclaimed  Koloberdyaeff, — 
"  but.  Prince,  allow  me.  .  .  ." 

And  he  himself  bound  up  his  head. 

The  Prince,  as  he  departed,  bowed  to  me  once 
more;  but  BizmyonkofF  did  not  even  bestow  a 
glance  on  me.  Slain,— morally  slain, — I  returned 
home  with  Koloberdyaeff. 

"  But  what  ails  you?  "—the  captain  asked  me. 
"  Calm  yourself ;  the  wound  is  not  dangerous. 
He  can  dance  to-morrow,  if  he  likes.  Or  are 
you  sorry  that  you  did  not  kill  him?  In  that  case, 
you  're  wrong;  he  's  a  splendid  fellow." 

"Why  did  he  spare  me?  ! "— I  muttered  at 
last. 

67 


THE  DIARY  OF 

"  Oho!  so  that 's  it!  " — calmly  retorted  the  cap- 
tain. .  .  "  Okh,  these  romancers  will  be  the 
death  of  me!  " 

I  positively  refuse  to  describe  my  tortures  in 
the  course  of  the  evening  which  followed  this  un- 
lucky duel.  My  pride  suffered  inexpressibly. 
It  was  not  my  conscience  which  tormented  me; 
the  consciousness  of  my  stupidity  annihilated  me. 
"  I  myself  have  dealt  mj^self  the  last,  the  final 
blow!"  I  kept  repeating  as  I  paced  my  room 
with  long  strides.  ..."  The  Prince  wounded  by 
me  and  forgiving  me  ....  yes,  Liza  is  his  now. 
Nothing  can  save  her  now,  nor  hold  her  back 
on  the  brink  of  perdition."  I  was  very  well  aware 
that  our  duel  could  not  remain  a  secret,  in  spite 
of  the  Prince's  words;  in  any  case,  it  could  not 
remain  a  secret  to  Liza.  "  The  Prince  is  not  so 
stupid  " — I  whispered  in  a  frenzy—"  as  not  to 
take  advantage  of  it."  .  .  .  And,  nevertheless,  I 
was  mistaken:  the  whole  town  heard  about  the 
duel  and  its  actual  cause, — on  the  very  next  day, 
of  course;  but  it  was  not  the  Prince  who  had 
babbled— on  the  contrary;  when  he  had  presented 
himself  to  Liza  with  a  bandaged  head  and  an 
excuse  which  had  been  prepared  in  advance,  she 
already  knew  everything.  .  .  Whether  Bizmyon- 
kofF  had  betrayed  me,  or  whether  the  news  had 
reached  her  by  other  roads,  I  cannot  say.  And, 
after  all,  is  it  possible  to  conceal  anything  in  a 
small  town?    You  can  imagine  how  Liza  took  it, 

68 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

how  the  whole  Ozhogin  family  took  it!  As  for 
me,  I  suddenly  became  the  object  of  universal 
indignation,  of  loathing,  a  monster,  a  crazily 
jealous  man,  and  a  cannibal.  My  few  acquain- 
tances renounced  me,  as  they  would  have  re- 
nounced a  leper.  The  town  authorities  appealed 
to  the  Prince  with  a  proposition  to  chastise  me 
in  a  stern  and  exemplary  manner;  only  the  per- 
sistent and  importunate  entreaties  of  the  Prince 
himself  warded  off  the  calamity  which  menaced 
my  head.  This  man  was  fated  to  annihilate  me 
in  every  way.  By  his  magnanimity  he  had  shut 
me  up  as  though  with  my  coffin-lid.  It  is  need- 
less to  say  that  the  Ozhogins'  house  was  imme- 
diately closed  to  me.  Kirila  Matvyeevitch  even 
returned  to  me  a  plain  pencil,  which  I  had  left 
at  his  residence.  In  reality,  he  was  precisely 
the  last  man  who  should  have  been  incensed  with 
me.  My  "  crazy  "  jealousy,  as  they  called  it  in 
the  town,  had  defined,  elucidated,  so  to  speak,  the 
relations  between  Liza  and  the  Prince.  The  old 
Ozhogins  themselves  and  the  other  residents  be- 
gan to  look  upon  him  almost  in  the  light  of  a  be- 
trothed husband.  In  reality,  that  could  not  have 
been  quite  agreeable  to  him;  but  he  liked  Liza 
very  much ;  and  moreover,  at  that  time  he  had  not, 
as  yet,  attained  his  object.  .  .  .  With  all  the  tact 
of  a  clever  man  of  the  world,  he  accommodated 
himself  to  his  new  position,  immediately  entered 
into  the  spirit  of  his  new  part,  as  the  saying  is. . . . 

69 


THE  DIARY  OF 

But  I!  ...  I  then  gave  up  in  despair,  so  far 
as  I  myself  was  concerned,  and  so  far  as  my 
future  was  concerned.  When  sufferings  reach 
such  a  pitch  that  they  make  our  whole  inward 
being  crack  and  creak  like  an  overloaded  cart, 
they  ought  to  cease  being  ridiculous.  .  .  .  But 
no!  laughter  not  only  accompanies  tears  to  the 
end,  to  exhaustion,  to  the  point  where  it  is  im- 
possible to  shed  any  more  of  them,— not  at  all! 
it  still  rings  and  resounds  at  a  point  where  the 
tongue  grows  dumb  and  lamentation  itself  dies 
away.  .  .  .  And  then,  in  the  first  place,  as  I  have 
no  intention  of  appearing  absurd  even  to  myself, 
and  in  the  second  place,  as  I  am  frightfully  tired, 
I  shall  defer  the  continuation  and,  God  willing, 
the  conclusion  of  my  story  until  to-morrow.  .  .  . 

March  29.  A  light  frost ;  last  night 
there  was  a  thaw. 
Yesterday  I  was  unable  to  go  on  with  my  diary ; 
like  Poprishshtchin,  I  lay  most  of  the  time  in 
bed,  and  chatted  with  Terentievna.  There  's  a 
woman  for  you!  Sixty  years  ago  she  lost  her 
first  betrothed  from  the  plague,  she  has  outlived 
all  her  children,  she  herself  is  unpardonably  old, 
she  drinks  tea  to  her  heart's  content,  she  is  well- 
fed,  warmly  clad;  but  what  do  you  think  she 
talked  to  me  about  yesterday?  I  had  ordered 
that  the  cape  of  an  old  livery-coat  should  be 
given  to  another  utterly  denuded  old  woman  for 

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A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

a  waistcoat  ( she  wears  a  breast-piece  in  the  shape 
of  a  waistcoat).  .  .  .  The  cape  was  pretty  thor- 
oughly eaten  by  moths,  so  why  should  not  she 
have  it?  "Well,  it  strikes  me  that  I  'm  your 
nurse.  .  .  .  O-okh,  my  dear  little  father,  't  is  a  sin 
for  you  to  do  that.  .  .  .  And  have  n't  I  been 
tending  you?  "  .  .  .  .  and  so  forth.  The  mer- 
ciless old  woman  fairly  wore  me  out  with 
her  reproaches.  .  .  .  But  let  us  return  to  the 
story. 

So,  then,  I  suffered  like  a  dog  which  has  had 
the  hind  part  of  its  body  run  over  by  a  wheel. 
Only  then, — only  after  my  expulsion  from  the 
Ozhogins'  house, — did  I  become  definitively 
aware  how  much  pleasure  a  man  may  derive  from 
the  contemplation  of  his  own  unhappiness.  Oh, 
men !  ye  are,  in  reality,  a  pitiful  race !  .  .  .  Well, 
but  that  is  in  the  nature  of  a  philosophical  remark. 
...  I  passed  my  days  in  utter  solitude,  and  only 
in  the  most  roundabout  and  even  base  ways  was  I 
able  to  find  out  w^iat  was  going  on  in  the  Ozho- 
gin  family,  what  the  Prince  was  doing.  My 
servant  struck  up  an  acquaintance  with  the  great- 
aunt  of  the  wife  of  his  coachman.  This  acquain- 
tance afforded  me  some  alleviation,  and  my 
servant  speedily  was  able,  from  my  hints  and 
gifts,  to  divine  what  it  behooved  him  to  talk  about 
with  his  master,  when  he  was  pulling  off  the  lat- 
ter's  boots  at  night.  Sometimes  I  chanced  to  meet 
in  the  street  some  member  of  the  Ozhogin  family, 

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THE  DIARY  OF 

BizmyonkofF,  or  the  Prince.  .  .  .  With  the 
Prince  and  Bizmyonkoff  I  exchanged  bows,  but 
I  did  not  enter  into  conversation.  I  saw  Liza 
thrice  in  all :  once  with  her  mamma,  in  a  milliner's 
shop,  once  in  an  open  calash  with  her  father, 
her  mother,  and  the  Prince;  once  in  church. 
Of  course,  I  did  not  venture  to  approach  her,  and 
only  gazed  at  her  from  afar.  In  the  shop  she  was 
anxious  but  cheerful.  .  .  .  She  was  ordering 
something  for  herself,  and  busily  trying  on  rib- 
bons. Her  mother  was  gazing  at  her,  with  hands 
clasped  on  her  stomach,  her  nose  elevated,  and 
indulging  in  that  stupid  and  affectionate  smile 
which  is  permissible  only  to  fond  mothers.  Liza 
was  in  the  calash  with  the  Prince.  ...  I  shall 
never  forget  that  meeting!  The  old  Ozhogins 
were  sitting  on  the  back  seat  of  the  calash,  the 
Prince  and  Liza  in  front.  She  was  paler  than 
usual;  two  pink  streaks  were  barely  discernible 
on  her  cheeks.  She  was  half -turned  toward  the 
Prince;  supporting  herself  on  her  outstretched 
right  hand  (she  was  holding  her  parasol  in  her 
left),  and  wearily  bending  her  head,  she  was 
gazing  straight  into  his  face  with  her  expressive 
eyes.  At  that  moment  she  was  surrendering  her- 
self utterly  to  him,  trusting  him  irrevocably.  I 
did  not  have  a  chance  to  get  a  good  look  at 
his  face, — the  calash  dashed  past  too  swiftly, — 
but  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  also  was  deeply 
moved. 

72 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

The  third  time  I  saw  her  was  in  church.  Not 
more  than  ten  days  had  elapsed  since  the  day 
when  I  had  encountered  her  in  the  calash  with 
the  Prince,  not  more  than  three  weeks  since  my 
duel.  The  business  on  account  of  which  the 
Prince  had  come  to  O***  had  long  been  finished ; 
but  he  still  deferred  his  departure;  he  reported 
in  Petersburg  that  he  was  ill.  In  the  city,  people 
were  expecting  every  day  a  formal  proposal  on 
his  part  to  Kirila  Matvyeevitch.  I  myself  was 
only  waiting  for  this  last  blow,  in  order  to  retire 
forever.  The  town  of  O***  had  grown  loath- 
some to  me.  I  could  not  sit  still  at  home,  and  from 
morning  till  night  I  dragged  myself  about  the 
suburbs.  One  grey,  wet  day,  as  I  was  return- 
ing from  a  stroll  which  had  been  cut  short  by  the 
rain,  I  stepped  into  the  church.  The  evening 
service  was  only  just  beginning,  there  were  very 
few  people  present;  I  looked  about  me,  and  sud- 
denly, near  a  window,  I  descried  a  familiar  pro- 
file. At  first  I  did  not  recognise  it;  that  pale 
face,  that  extinct  glance,  those  sunken  cheeks — 
could  it  be  the  same  Liza  whom  I  had  seen  two 
weeks  before?  Enveloped  in  a  cloak,  with  no 
hat  on  her  head,  illuminated  from  one  side  by  a 
cold  ray  of  light,  which  fell  through  the  broad 
window  of  white  glass,  she  was  staring  immov- 
ably at  the  ikonostasis,  and,  apparently,  making 
a  violent  effort  to  pray,  striving  to  escape  from 
some   sort   of   dejected   rigidity.      A   fat,   red- 

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THE  DIARY  OF 

cheeked  page  with  yellow  cartridge-cases  on  his 
breast  ^  was  standing  behind  her,  with  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  back,  and  staring  with  sleepy 
surprise  at  his  mistress.  I  shuddered  all  over; 
I  started  to  go  to  her,  but  stopped  short.  A 
torturing  forboding  gripped  my  breast.  Liza 
never  stirred  until  the  very  end  of  vespers.  All 
the  congregation  departed,  a  chanter  began  to 
sweep  out  the  church,  and  still  she  did  not  stir 
from  her  place.  The  page  approached  her,  and 
touched  her  gown ;  she  glanced  round,  passed  her 
hand  over  her  face,  and  went  away.  I  escorted 
her,  at  a  distance,  to  her  house,  then  returned 
home. 

"  She  is  ruined!  "  I  exclaimed,  as  I  entered  my 
room. 

Being  a  man,  I  do  not  know  to  this  day  what 
was  the  nature  of  my  sensations  then.  I  remem- 
ber that,  folding  my  arms,  I  flung  myself  on  the 
divan,  and  riveted  my  eyes  on  the  floor;  but  I 
did  not  know  why,  only,  in  the  midst  of  my  grief, 
I  seemed  to  be  pleased  at  something.  ...  I 
would  not  have  admitted  that  on  any  account, 
if  I  were  not  writing  for  myself.  ...  I  really 
had  been  tortured  by  painful,  terrible  forebod- 
ings ....  and,  who  knows,  perhaps  I  should 
have  been  disconcerted  if  they  had  not  bee^n  ful- 
filled. "  Such  is  the  human  heart !  "  some  mid- 
dle-aged Russian  teacher  would  exclaim  at  this 

1  The  page  is  called  a  kazuk,  and  dressed  accordingly.  —Translator 

74 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

point,  in  an  expressive  voice,  raising  on  high  his 
thick  forefinger  adorned  with  a  carnehan  ring. 
But  what  care  we  for  the  opinion  of  a  Russian 
teacher  with  an  expressive  voice,  and  a  carnehan 
ring  on  his  finger? 

Be  that  as  it  may,  my  forebodings  had  turned 
out  to  be  correct.  The  news  suddenly  spread 
through  the  town  that  the  Prince  had  taken  his 
departure,  in  consequence,  nominally,  of  an  order 
from  Petersburg ;  that  he  had  gone  away  without 
having  made  any  proposal  of  marriage  either  to 
Kirila  Matvyeevitch  or  to  his  spouse,  and  that 
Liza  would  continue  to  mourn  his  perfidy  to  the 
end  of  her  days.  The  Prince's  departure  had 
been  entirely  unexpected,  because,  as  late  as  the 
evening  before,  his  coachman,  according  to  the  as- 
sertions of  my  servant,  had  not  in  the  least  sus- 
pected his  master's  intention.  This  news  threw 
me  into  a  fever.  I  immediately  dressed  myself, 
was  on  the  point  of  running  to  the  Ozhogins'; 
but  after  thinking  the  matter  over,  I  concluded 
that  it  would  be  decorous  to  wait  until  the  follow- 
ing day.  However,  I  lost  nothing  by  remaining 
at  home.  That  evening  there  ran  in  to  see  me 
a  certain  Pandopipopulo,  a  Greek  on  his  travels, 
who  had  accidentally  got  stranded  in  O***,  a 
gossip  of  the  first  magnitude,  who,  more  than 
any  one  else,  had  seethed  with  indignation  against 
me  for  my  duel  with  the  Prince.  He  did  not 
even  give  my  servant  time  to  announce  him,  but 

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THE  DIARY  OF 

fairly  forced  his  way  into  my  room,  shook  me 
vigorously  by  the  hand,  made  a  thousand  excuses 
for  his  conduct,  called  me  a  model  of  magnanim- 
ity and  fearlessness,  depicted  the  Prince  in  the 
blackest  colours,  did  not  spare  the  old  Ozhogins, 
whom  Fate  had,  in  his  opinion,  justly  punished; 
he  gave  a  hit  at  Liza  also  in  passing,  and  ran  off, 
after  kissing  me  on  the  shoulder.  Among  other 
things,  I  learned  from  him  that  the  Prince,  en 
vrai  grand  seigneur,  on  the  eve  of  his  departure, 
had  replied  coldly  to  a  delicate  hint  from  Kirila 
Matvyeevitch,  that  he  had  not  intended  to  deceive 
any  one  and  was  not  thinking  of  marrying;  had 
risen,  and  made  his  bow,  and  that  was  the  last 
they  had  seen  of  him.  .  .  . 

On  the  following  day,  I  betook  myself  to  the 
Ozhogins'.  The  blear-eyed  footman,  at  my  ap- 
pearance, sprang  from  the  bench  in  the  ante- 
room with  lightning-like  swiftness;  I  ordered 
him  to  announce  me.  The  lackey  hastened  oiF, 
and  immediately  returned:  "Please  enter,"  said 
he;  "I  am  ordered  to  invite  you  in."  I  entered 
Kirfla  Matvyeevitch's  study.  .  .  .  Until  to-mor- 
row. 

March  30.    A  frost. 

So,  then,  I  entered  Kirila  Matvyeevitch's  study. 
I  would  give  a  good  deal  to  any  one  who  could 
have  shown  me  my  own  face  at  the  moment  when 
that  worthy  official,   hastily  лvrapping  his  Bu- 

76 


A   SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

khara  dressing-gown  round  him,  stepped  forward 
to  meet  me  with  outstretched  hands.  I  must 
have  fairly  radiated  an  atmosphere  of  modest 
triumph,  patronising  sympathy,  and  hmitless 
magnanimity.  ...  I  felt  that  I  was  something 
in  the  nature  of  Scipio  Africanus.  Ozhogin  was 
visibly  embarrassed  and  depressed,  avoided  my 
eye,  and  shifted  from  foot  to  foot  where  he  stood. 
I  also  noticed  that  he  talked  in  an  unnaturally- 
loud  manner,  and  altogether  expressed  himself 
very  indefinitely; — indefinitely,  but  with  fervour, 
did  he  beg  my  pardon,  indefinitely  alluded  to  the 
departed  visitor,  added  a  few  general  and  in- 
definite remarks  about  the  deceitfulness  and  in- 
stability of  earthly  blessings,  and  suddenly,  be- 
coming conscious  of  a  tear  in  his  eye,  he  hastened 
to  take  a  pinch  of  snufF,  probably  with  the  ob- 
ject of  deluding  me  as  to  the  cause  which  was 
making  him  weep.  .  .  .  He  used  green  Russian 
snuff,  and  every  one  knows  that  that  plant 
makes  even  old  men  shed  tears,  athwart  which 
the  human  eye  peers  forth  dimly  and  senselessly 
for  the  space  of  several  minutes. 

As  a  matter  of  course  I  treated  the  old  man 
very  cautiously,  inquired  after  the  health  of  his 
wife  and  daughter,  and  at  once  turned  the  con- 
versation artfully  on  the  interesting  question  of 
rotation  of  crops.  I  was  dressed  as  usual;  but 
the  feeling  of  soft  decorum  and  gentle  conde- 
scension which  filled  my  breast,  afforded  me  a 

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THE  DIARY  OF 

festive  and  fresh  sensation,  as  though  I  were 
wearing  a  white  waistcoat  and  a  white  neckcloth. 
One  thing  disturbed  me:  the  thought  of  meeting 
Liza  again.  .  .  .  At  last  Ozhogin  himself  pro- 
posed to  conduct  me  to  his  wife.  That  good,  but 
stupid  woman,  on  beholding  me,  at  first  became 
frightfully  embarrassed;  but  her  brain  was  in- 
capable of  preserving  one  and  the  same  impres- 
sion for  long  together,  and  therefore  she  speedily 
recovered  her  equanimity.  At  last  I  saw  Liza. 
.  ,  .  She  entered  the  room.  .  .  . 

I  had  expected  that  I  should  find  in  her  an 
abashed,  penitent  sinner,  and  had  already  in  ad- 
vance imparted  to  my  face  the  most  cordial  and 
encouraging  expression.  .  .  .  Why  should  I  lie? 
I  really  loved  her  and  thirsted  for  the  happiness 
of  forgiving  her,  of  putting  out  my  hand  to  her ; 
but,  to  my  unspeakable  amazement,  in  reply  to 
my  significant  bow,  she  laughed  coldly,  remarked 
carelessly:  "  Ah?  so  it  's  you?  "  and  immediately 
turned  away  from  me.  Her  laugh  appeared  to 
me  forced,  it  is  true,  and,  in  any  case,  was  ill- 
suited  to  her  dreadfully  emaciated  face.  .  .  . 
But,  nevertheless,  I  had  not  expected  such  a  re- 
ception. ...  I  stared  at  her  in  astonishment. 
.  .  .  What  a  change  had  taken  place  in  her !  Be- 
tween the  former  child  and  this  woman  there  was 
nothing  in  common.  She  seemed  to  have  grown 
taller,  to  have  drawn  herself  up  straighter ;  all  her 
features,  especially  her  lips^  seemed  to  have  ac- 

78 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

quired  a  more  defined  outline  ....  her  gaze 
had  become  more  profound,  more  firm,  and  dark. 
I  sat  with  the  Ozhogins  until  dinner;  she  rose, 
left  the  room  and  returned  to  it,  calmly  replied 
to  questions,  and  deliberate^  took  no  heed  of  me. 
I  could  see  that  she  wished  to  make  me  feel  that  I 
was  not  worthy  even  of  her  anger,  although  I 
had  come  near  killing  her  lover.  At  last  I  lost 
patience:  a  malicious  hint  broke  from  my  lips. 
.  .  .  She  shuddered,  darted  a  swift  glance  at 
me,  rose,  and,  w^alking  to  the  window,  said  in  a 
voice  which  trembled  slightty:  "You  can  say 
anj^thing  you  like,  but  you  must  know  that  I  love 
that  man  and  shall  always  love  him,  and  do  not 
consider  him  to  blame  toward  me  in  the  slightest 
degree,  on  the  contrary  .  .  .  ."  Her  voice  broke 
with  a  tinkle,  she  paused  ....  tried  to  control 
herself,  but  could  not,  and  burst  into  tears  and 
left  the  room.  .  .  .  The  elder  Ozhogins  grew 
confused.  ...  I  shook  hands  with  both  of  them, 
sighed,  cast  a  glance  upward,  and  went  away. 

I  am  too  weak,  there  is  too  little  time  left  to  me, 
I  am  not  in  a  condition  to  describe  with  my 
former  minuteness  this  new  series  of  torturing 
meditations,  firm  intentions,  and  other  fruits  of 
the  so-called  inward  conflict,  which  started  up  in 
me  after  the  renewal  of  my  acquaintance  with 
the  Ozhogins.  I  did  not  doubt  that  Liza  still 
loved  and  would  long  love  the  Prince  ....  but, 
being  a  man  tamed  now  by  circumstances  and 

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THE  DIARY  OF 

who  had  resigned  himself  to  his  fate,  I  did 
not  even  dream  of  her  love :  I  merely  desired  her 
friendship,  I  wanted  to  win  her  confidence,  her 
respect,  which,  according  to  the  assertions  of  ex- 
perienced persons,  is  regarded  as  the  most  trust- 
worthy foundation  for  happiness  in  marriage. 
....  Unhappily,  I  had  lost  sight  of  one  rather 
important  circumstance — namety,  that  Liza  had 
hated  me  ever  since  the  day  of  the  duel.  I  learned 
this  too  late. 

I  began  to  frequent  the  Ozhogins'  house  as  of 
yore.  Kirila  Matvyeevitch  was  more  cordial  to 
me  and  petted  me  more  than  ever.  I  even  have 
cause  to  think  that  at  the  time  he  would  have 
gladly  given  me  his  daughter,  although  I  was 
not  an  enviable  match :  public  opinion  condemned 
him  and  Liza,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  extolled 
me  to  the  skies.  Liza's  treatment  of  me  did  not 
change:  she  maintained  silence  most  of  the  time, 
obeyed  when  she  was  bidden  to  eat,  displayed 
no  outward  signs  of  grief,  but,  nevertheless,  she 
wasted  away  like  a  candle.  I  must  do  justice  to 
Kirila  Matvyeevitch :  he  spared  her  in  every  possi- 
ble way ;  old  INIadame  Ozhogin  merely  bristled  up 
as  she  looked  at  her  poor  child.  There  was  only 
one  man  whom  Liza  did  not  avoid,  although  she 
did  not  talk  much  to  him,  namely,  Bizmyonkoff . 
The  old  Ozhogins  treated  him  sternly,  even 
roughly;  they  could  not  pardon  him  for  having 
acted  as  second ;  but  he  continued  to  come  to  their 

80 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

house,  as  though  he  did  not  notice  their  disfavour. 
With  me  he  was  very  cold,  and, — strange  to  say! 
— I  felt  afraid  of  him,  as  it  луеге.  This  state  of 
things  lasted  for  about  a  fortnight.  At  last, 
after  a  sleepless  night,  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
have  an  explanation  with  Liza,  to  lay  bare  my 
heart  before  her ;  to  tell  her  that,  notwithstanding 
the  past,  notwithstanding  all  sorts  of  rumours 
and  gossip,  I  should  regard  myself  as  too  happy 
if  she  would  favour  me  with  her  hand,  would 
restore  to  me  her  trust.  I  really,  without  jesting, 
imagined  that  I  w^as  exhibiting,  as  the  comjien- 
diums  of  literature  put  it,  an  unprecedented  ex- 
ample of  magnanimity,  and  that  she  would  give 
her  consent  out  of  sheer  amazement.  In  any 
case,  I  wanted  to  clear  up  the  situation  with  her, 
and  escape,  definitively,  from  my  state  of  un- 
certainty. 

Behind  the  Ozhogins'  house  lay  a  fairly  spa- 
cious garden,  terminating  in  a  linden  coppice, 
neglected  and  overgrown.  In  the  middle  of  this 
coppice  rose  an  old  arbour  in  the  Chinese  style; 
a  board  fence  separated  the  garden  from  a  blind- 
alley.  Liza  sometimes  strolled  for  hours  at  a 
time  alone  in  this  garden.  Kirila  Matvyeevitch 
knew  this  and  had  given  orders  that  she  was  not 
to  be  disturbed,  and  kept  a  watch  over  her: 
"  Let  her  grief  wear  itself  out,"  he  said.  When 
she  was  not  to  be  found  in  the  house,  it  was  only 
necessary  to  ring  a  small  bell  on  the  porch  at 

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THE  DIARY  OF 

dinner-time,  and  she  immediately  presented  her- 
self, with  the  same  obdurate  taciturnity  on  her 
lips  and  in  her  gaze,  and  some  sort  of  crumpled 
leaf  in  her  hand.  So,  one  day,  observing  that 
she  was  not  in  the  house,  I  pretended  that  I  was 
making  ready  to  depart,  took  leave  of  Kirila 
Matvyeevitch,  put  on  my  hat,  and  emerged  from 
the  anteroom  into  the  courtyard,  and  from  the 
courtyard  into  the  street,  but  instantly,  with  ex- 
traordinary swiftness,  slipped  back  through  the 
gate  and  made  my  way  past  the  kitchen  into 
the  garden.  Luckily,  no  one  espied  me.  With- 
out pausing  long  to  think,  I  entered  the  grove 
with  hasty  steps.  Before  me,  on  the  path,  stood 
Liza.  My  heart  began  to  beat  violently  in  my 
breast.  I  stopped  short,  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and 
was  on  the  point  of  approaching  her,  when  all 
of  a  sudden,  without  turning  round,  she  raised  her 
hand  and  began  to  listen.  .  .  .  From  behind  the 
trees,  in  the  direction  of  the  blind-alley,  two 
knocks  rang  out  clearly,  as  though  some  one  were 
tapping  on  the  fence.  Liza  clapped  her  hands, 
a  faint  squeaking  of  the  wicket-gate  became  audi- 
ble, and  BizmyonkofF  emerged  from  the  coppice. 
I  promptly  hid  myself  behind  a  tree.  Liza  turned 
silently  toward  him.  .  .  .  Silently  he  drew  her 
arm  through  his,  and  both  walked  softly  along  the 
path.  I  stared  after  them  in  astonishment.  They 
halted,  looked  about  them,  disappeared  behind  the 
bushes,  appeared  again,  and  finally  entered  the  ar- 

82 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

bour.  This  arbour  was  circular  in  shape,  a  tiny  lit- 
tle building,  with  one  door  and  one  small  window ; 
in  the  centre  was  to  be  seen  an  old  table  with  a  sin- 
gle leg,  overgrown  with  fine  green  moss;  two 
faded  little  plank  divans  stood  at  the  sides,  at 
some  distance  from  the  damp  and  dark-hued 
walls.  Here,  on  unusually  hot  days,  and  that 
once  a  year,  and  in  former  times,  they  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  drinking  tea.  The  door  would  not 
shut  at  all ;  the  frame  had  long  ago  fallen  out  of 
the  window  and,  catching  by  one  corner,  dangled 
mournfully,  like  the  wounded  wing  of  a  bird.  I 
stole  up  to  the  arbour  and  cautiously  glanced 
through  a  crack  of  the  window.  Liza  was  sitting 
on  one  of  the  little  divans,  with  drooping  head; 
her  right  hand  lay  on  her  lap ;  BizmyonkofF  was 
holding  the  left  in  both  his  hands.  He  was  gaz- 
ing at  her  with  sympathy. 

"  How  do  you  feel  to-day?  " — he  asked  her,  in 
a  low  voice. 

"  Just  the  same!  " — she  replied;—"  neither  bet- 
ter nor  worse. — Emptiness,  frightful  empti- 
ness! " — she  added,  dejectedly  raising  her  eyes. 

BizmyonkoiF  made  no  reply. 

"What  think  you,"  she  went  on; — "will  he 
write  to  me  again?  " 

"  I  think  not,  Lizaveta  Kirillovna!  " 

She  remained  silent  for  a  while. 

'"^  And,  in  fact,  what  is  there  for  him  to  write 
about?    He  told  me  every thirig  in  his  first  letter. 

83 


THE  DIARY  OF 

I  could  not  be  his  wife ;  but  I  was  happy  .  .  .  not 
for  long.  ...  I  was  happy.  .  .  ." 

BizmyonkofF  lowered  his  eyes. 

"  Akh,"— she  went  on  with  animation;— "  if 
you  only  knew  how  loathsome  that  Tchulkaturin 
is  to  me!  ...  It  always  seems  to  me  that  I  can 

see his  blood  ...  on  that  man's  hands." 

(I  writhed  behind  my  crack.)  "  However," — she 
added  thoughtfully ; — "  who  knows, — perhaps 
had  it  not  been  for  that  duel  ....  Akh,  when  I 
beheld  him  wounded,  I  immediately  felt  that  I 
was  all  his." 

"  Tchulkaturin  loves  you," — remarked  Biz- 
myonkoff. 

"  What  do  I  care  for  that?  Do  I  need  any  one's 
love?  .  .  ."  She  paused,  and  added  slowly :  .  .  . 
"  except  yours.  Yes,  my  friend,  your  love  is  in- 
dispensable to  me:  without  you  I  should  have  per- 
ished. You  have  helped  me  to  endure  terrible  mo- 
ments. .  .  ." 

She  ceased.  .  .  .  BizmyonkofF  began  to  stroke 
her  hand  with  paternal  tenderness.  "  There  's  no 
help  for  it,  there  's  no  help  for  it,  Lizaveta  Kiril- 
lovna,"— he  repeated,  several  times  in  succession. 

"  Yes,  and  now,"— she  said  dully,—"  I  think  I 
should  die  if  it  were  not  for  you.  You  alone  sus- 
tain me ;  moreover,  you  remind  me  ....  For  you 
know  everything.  Do  you  remember  how  hand- 
some he  was  that  day?  ....  But  forgive  me:  it 
must  be  painful  for  you.  .  .  ." 

84 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

"Speak,  speak!  What  do  you  mean?  God 
bless  you!  " — Bizmyonkoif  interrupted  her.  She 
squeezed  his  hand. 

*'  You  are  very  kind,  Bizmyonkoff," — she  went 
on: — "  you  are  as  kind  as  an  angel.  What  am  I 
to  do  ?  I  feel  that  I  shall  love  him  until  I  die.  I 
have  forgiven  him,  I  am  grateful  to  him.  May 
God  grant  him  happiness !  May  God  give  him  a 
wife  after  his  own  heart! " — And  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears.—"  If  only  he  does  not  forget  me,  if 
only  he  will  now  and  then  recall  his  Liza  to  mind. 
Let  us  go  out," — she  added,  after  a  brief  pause. 

Bizmyonkoff  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

"  I  know," — she  began  with  warmth, — "  every 
one  is  blaming  me,  every  one  is  casting  stones  at 
me  now.  Let  them!  All  the  same,  I  would  not 
exchange  my  unhappiness  for  their  happiness 
.  .  .  no!  no!  .  .  .  He  did  not  love  me  long,  but 
he  did  love  me !  He  never  deceived  me :  he  did  not 
tell  me  that  I  was  to  be  his  wife ;  I  myself  never 
thought  of  such  a  thing.  Only  poor  papa  hoped 
for  that.  And  now  I  am  still  not  utterly  un- 
happy :  there  remains  to  me  the  memory,  and  how- 
ever terrible  the  consequences  may  be  ....  I  am 
stifling  here  ....  it  was  here  that  I  saw  him  for 
the  last  time.  .  .  .  Let  us  go  out  into  the  air." 

They  rose.  I  barely  managed  to  leap  aside  and 
hide  behind  a  thick  linden.  They  came  out  of  the 
arbour  and,  so  far  as  I  was  able  to  judge  from  the 
sound  of  their  footsteps,  went  off  into  the  grove. 

85 


THE  DIARY  OF 

I  do  not  know  how  long  I  had  been  standing 
there,  лvithout  stirring  from  the  spot,  absorbed  in 
a  sort  of  irrational  surprise,  when  suddenly  the 
sound  of  footsteps  became  audible  again.  I 
started  and  peered  cautiously  from  my  ambush. 
Bizmyonkoif  and  Liza  were  returning  by  the 
same  path.  Both  were  greatly  agitated,  especially 
BizmyonkofF.  He  had  been  weeping,  appar- 
ently. Liza  halted,  gazed  at  him,  and  uttered  the 
following  words  distinctly:  "  I  consent,  Bizmyon- 
koif. I  would  not  have  consented,  had  you  merely 
wished  to  save  me,  to  extricate  me  from  a  fright- 
ful position;  but  you  love  me,  you  know  all — and 
you  love  me;  I  shall  never  find  a  more  trustwor- 
thy, faithful  friend.    I  will  be  your  wife." 

BizmyonkofF  kissed  her  hand ;  she  smiled  sadly 
at  him,  and  went  to  the  house.  BizmyonkofF 
dashed  into  the  thicket,  and  I  went  my  way.  As 
BizmyonkofF  had  probably  said  to  Liza  precisely 
what  I  had  intended  to  say  to  her,  and  as  she  had 
given  him  precisely  the  answer  which  I  had  hoped 
to  hear  from  her,  there  was  no  necessity  for  my 
troubling  myself  further.  A  fortnight  later  she 
married  him.  The  old  Ozhogins  were  glad  to  get 
any  bridegroom. 

Well,  tell  me  now,  am  not  I  a  superfluous  man? 
Did  not  I  play  in  the  whole  of  that  affair  the  part 
of  a  superfluous  man?  The  role  of  the  Prince 
....  as  to  that,  there  is  nothing  to  be  said;  the 
role  of  BizmyonkofF  also  is  comprehensible  .  .  .  . 

86 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

But  I?  Why  was  I  mixed  up  in  it?  .  .  .  what  a 
stupid,  fifth  wheel  to  the  cart  I  was!  .  .  .  Akh, 
't  is  bitter,  bitter !  ...  So  now,  as  the  stevedores 
on  the  Volga  say:  "Heave-ho!  heave-ho!"^  — 
one  more  httle  day,  then  another,  and  nothing  will 
be  either  bitter  or  sweet  to  me  any  more. 

March  31. 
Things  are  bad.  I  write  these  lines  in  bed.  The 
weather  has  changed  suddenly  since  yesterday. 
To-day  is  hot— almost  a  summer  day.  Every- 
thing is  thawing,  crumbling,  and  streaming. 
There  is  an  odour  of  ploughed  earth  in  the  air: 
a  heavy,  powerful,  oppressive  odour.  The  steam 
is  rising  everywhere.  The  sun  is  fairly  beating, 
fairly  blazing  down.  I  am  in  a  bad  way.  I  feel 
that  I  am  decomposing. 

I  started  out  to  write  a  diary,  and  instead  of 
that,  what  have  I  done?  I  have  narrated  one 
incident  out  of  my  OAvn  life.  I  have  been  bab- 
bling, sleeping  memories  have  waked  up  and  car- 
ried me  алуау.  I  have  written  leisurely,  in  de- 
tail, as  though  I  still  had  years  before  me;  and 
now,  lo,  there  is  no  time  to  continue.  Death, 
death  is  advancing.  I  can  already  hear  its  men- 
acing crescendo.  .  .  Time  's  up.  .  .  .  Time  's 
up! .  .  . 

1  The  burlaM  on  the  Volga  used  to  tow  the  barges  from  Astrakhan 
to  Nfzhni  Ndvgorod  Fair,  against  the  current.  The  stevedores  also 
are  called  burlaki,  and,  as  they  lade  the  barges,  their  chantey  runs 
(more  literally  than  I  have  translated  it  above):  "Yet  another  little 
time,  yet  again,  .  .  ."  and  so  forth. — Translator. 

87 


THE  DIARY  OF 

And  where  's  the  harm?  Does  it  make  any  dif- 
ference what  I  have  told?  In  the  presence  of 
death  all  the  last  earthly  vanities  disappear.  I 
feel  that  I  am  quieting  down;  I  am  becoming 
more  simple,  more  clear.  I  have  acquired  sense, 
but  too  late!  ...  'T  is  strange!  I  am  growing 
still — 't  is  true,  and,  nevertheless,  I  am  overcome 
with  dread.  Yes,  I  am  overcome  with  dread. 
Half -leaning  over  the  voiceless,  yawning  gulf, 
I  shudder,  I  turn  aside,  with  eager  attention  I 
gaze  about  in  all  directions.  Every  object  is 
doubly  dear  to  me.  I  cannot  gaze  my  fill  at  my 
poor,  cheerless  room,  as  I  bid  farewell  to  every 
tiny  fleck  on  my  Avails!  Sate  yourselves  for  the 
last  time,  ye  eyes  of  mine !  Life  is  withdrawing ; 
it  is  flowing  evenly  and  softly  away  from  me, 
like  the  shore  from  the  glances  of  the  traveller 
by  sea.  The  aged,  yellow  face  of  my  nurse, 
bound  up  in  a  dark  kerchief,  the  hissing  samovar 
on  the  table,  the  pot  of  geranium  in  front  of  the 
window,  and  thou,  my  poor  dog,  Tresor,  the  pen 
wherewith  I  indite  these  lines,  my  own  hand,  I 
see  you  now  ....  there  you  are,  there.  .  .  . 
Is  it  possible  ....  to-day  perhaps  ...  I  shall 
see  you  no  more?  'T  is  painful  for  a  living  being 
to  part  with  life!  Why  dost  thou  fawn  on  me, 
poor  dog?  Why  dost  thou  lean  thy  breast 
against  my  bed  convulsively  tucking  under  thy 
short  tail,  and  never  taking  from  me  thy  kind, 
sad  eyes?     Art  thou  sorry  for  me?     Dost  thou 

88 


A   SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

already  feel  instinctivelj^  that  thy  master  will 
soon  be  no  more?  Akh,  if  I  could  also  pass  in 
review  mentally  all  the  objects  in  my  room!  I 
know  that  these  memories  are  cheerless  and  in- 
significant, but  I  have  no  others.  Emptiness, 
frightful  emptiness!  as  Liza  said. 

Oh,  my  God!  ]My  God!  Here  I  am  dying. 
.  .  .  My  heart  capable  of  love,  and  ready  to  love, 
will  soon  cease  to  beat.  .  .  And  can  it  be  that  it 
will  be  silenced  forever,  without  having  even  once 
tasted  of  happiness,  without  having  a  single 
time  swelled  beneath  the  sweet  burden  of  joy? 
Alas!  't  is  impossible,  impossible,  I  know.  .  .  If 
at  least  now,  before  my  death— and  death,  never- 
theless, is  a  sacred  thing,  for  it  elevates  every 
being — if  some  charming,  sad,  friendly  voice 
were  to  sing  over  me  the  parting  song  of  my 
own  woe,  perhaps  I  might  become  reconciled  to 
it.    But  to  die  is  stupid,  stupid.  .  . 

I  believe  I  am  beginning  to  rave. 

Farewell  life,  farewell  mj^  garden,  and  you, 
my  lindens!  When  summer  comes,  see  that  you 
do  not  forget  to  cover  yourselves  with  flowers 
from  top  to  bottom  ....  and  may  good  people 
lie  in  j^ur  fragrant  shade,  on  the  cool  grass 
beneath  the  lisping  murmur  of  your  leaves, 
lightly  agitated  by  the  breeze.  Farewell,  fare- 
well !    Farewell  everything,  and  forever ! 

Farewell,  Liza!  I  have  written  these  two 
words — and  have  almost  laughed.    That  exclam- 

89 


THE  DIARY  OF 

ation  seems  bookish.  I  seem  to  be  composing 
a  sentimental  novel,  and  ending  up  a  despairing 
letter.  .  .  . 

To-morrow  is  the  first  of  April.  Can  it  be 
that  I  shall  die  to-morrow?  That  would  be  ra- 
ther indecorous  even.    However,  it  befits  me.  .  . 

How  the  doctor  did  gabble  to-day.  .  .  . 

April  1. 
'T  IS  over.  Life  is  ended.  I  really  shall  die 
to-day.  It  is  hot  out  of  doors  .  .  .  almost  sti- 
fling ....  or  is  it  that  my  chest  is  already  re- 
fusing to  breathe?  My  little  comedy  has  been 
played  through.     The  curtain  is  falling. 

In  becoming  annihilated,  I  shall  cease  to  be 
superfluous.  .  . 

Akh,  how  brilliant  that  sun  is !  Those  powerful 
rays  exhale  eternity.  .  . 

Farewell,  Terentievna!  .  .  .  This  morning, 
as  she  sat  by  the  window,  she  fell  to  weeping 
....  perhaps  over  me  .  .  .  and  perhaps,  be- 
cause she  herself  must  die  before  long  also.  I 
made  her  promise  "  not  to  hurt  "  Tresor. 

It  is  difficult  for  me  to  write.  ...  I  drop  my 
pen.  .  .  'T  is  time!  Death  is  already  drawing 
near  with  increasing  rumble,  like  a  carriage  by 
night  on  the  pavement:  it  is  here,  it  is  hovering 
around  me,  like  that  faint  breath  which  made 
the  hair  of  the  prophet  stand  upright  on  his 
head.  .  . 

90 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

I  am  dying.  .  .  Live  on,  ye  living. 

And  may  the  young  life  play 
At  the  entrance  of  the  grave, 
And  Nature  the  indifferent 
With  beauty  beam  forever! 

Note  of  the  Editor.— Under  this  last  line  there  is  the  profile  of  a 
head  with  a  large  crest-curl  and  moustache,  with  eyes  en  face,  and 
ray-like  eyelashes;  and  under  the  head  some  one  has  written  the 
following  words: 

The  abov  manuscript  has  been  read 

And  the  Contints  Thereof  Bin  Approved 

By  Pyetr  Zudotyeshin 

M     M     M     M 

Dear  Sir 

Pyetr  Zudotyeshin. 

My  Dear  Sir. 

But  as  the  chirography  of  these  lines  does  not  in  the  least  agree 
with  the  chirography  in  which  the  remainder  of  the  note-book  is 
written,  the  editor  considers  himself  justified  in  concluding  that  the 
above-mentioned  lines  were  added  afterward  by  another  person;  the 
more  so,  as  it  has  come  to  his  (the  editor's)  knowledge  that  Mr. 
Tchulkaturin  really  did  die  on  the  night  of  April  1-2,  18  .  .  ,  in  his 
natal  estate— О  vetchi  Vody. 


91 


THREE  PORTRAITS 

(1840) 


THREE  PORTRAITS 

THE  neighbours  "  constitute  one  of  the  most 
serious  drawbacks  to  country  life.  I  кпелу 
one  landed  proprietor  of  the  Government  of 
Vologda,  who,  at  every  convenient  opportunity, 
was  wont  to  repeat  the  following  words :  "  Thank 
God,  I  have  no  neighbours!  "—and  I  must  ad- 
mit that  I  could  not  refrain  from  envying  that 
lucky  mortal. 

My  little  village  is  situated  in  one  of  the  most 
thickly-populated  governments  of  Russia.  I  am 
surrounded  by  a  vast  multitude  of  petty  neigh- 
bours, beginning  with  the  well-intentioned  and 
respected  landed  proprietors,  clad  in  capacious 
di'ess-coats,  and  more  capacious  waistcoats, — and 
ending  with  arrant  roysterers,  who  wear  hussar- 
jackets  with  long  sleeves  and  the  so-called 
"  fimsky  "  knot  on  the  back.  In  the  ranks  of 
these  nobles,  however,  I  have  accidentally  dis- 
covered one  very  amiable  young  fellow.  Once 
upon  a  time  he  was  in  the  military  service,  then 
he  retired,  and  settled  down  for  good  and  all 
in  the  country.  According  to  his  account,  he 
served  two  years  in  the  B***  regiment;  but  I 
positively    cannot    understand    how    that    man 

95 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

could  have  discharged  any  duties  whatsoever,  not 
only  for  the  space  of  two  years,  but  even  for 
the  space  of  two  days.  He  was  born  "  for  a 
peaceful  life,  for  rustic  tranquillity,"  that  is  to 
say,  for  indolent,  careless  vegetation,  which,  I 
may  remark  in  parenthesis,  is  not  devoid  of  great 
and  inexhaustible  charms. 

He  enjoyed  a  very  respectable  property: 
without  troubling  himself  too  much  about  the 
management  of  his  estate,  he  spent  about  ten  thou- 
sand rubles  ^  a  year,  procured  for  himself  a  capi- 
tal cook  (my  friend  was  fond  of  good  eating)  ; 
he  also  imported  from  IVIoscow  the  newest  French 
books  and  journals.  He  read  nothing  in  Rus- 
sian except  the  reports  of  his  overseer,  and  that 
with  great  difficulty.  From  morning  until  dinner 
(if  he  did  not  go  off  hunting),  he  did  not  doff 
his  dressing-gown;  he  sorted  over  some  sketches 
or  other  pertaining  to  the  management,  or  be- 
took himself  to  the  stable,  or  to  the  threshing- 
shed,  and  indulged  in  a  good  laugh  with  the 
peasant  wives,  who  rattled  their  chains,  as  the 
saying  is,  in  his  presence,  out  of  ostentation. 
After  dinner  my  friend  dressed  himself  before 
the  mirror  with  great  care,  and  drove  off  to  some 
neighbour  endowed  with  two  or  three  pretty 
young  daughters;  heedlessly  and  pacifically,  he 

^A  ruble,  at  the  present  time,  is  worth,  on  an  average,  about  fifty- 
two  cents.  At  the  period  here  referred  to,  the  silver  ruble  would  pur- 
chase more  than  a  ruble  nowadays,  while  the  paper  ruble  was  worth 
very  little. — Translator. 

96 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

dangled  after  one  of  them,  played  at  blind-man's 
buff  with  them,  returned  home  rather  late,  and 
immediately  sank  into  heroic  slumber.  He  could 
not  feel  bored,  because  he  never  devoted  him- 
self to  absolute  inaction,  and  he  was  not  fas- 
tidious as  to  his  choice  of  occupations,  and,  like 
a  child,  was  amused  with  the  smallest  trifle.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  felt  no  special  attachment  to 
life,  and,  it  sometimes  happened,  that  when  it 
became  necessarj^  to  outrun  a  wolf  or  a  fox,  he 
would  launch  his  horse  at  full  speed  over  such 
ravines,  that  to  this  day  I  cannot  understand 
why  he  did  not  break  his  neck  a  hundred  times. 
He  belonged  to  the  category  of  people  who  evoke 
in  you  the  thought  that  they  are  not  aware  of  their 
own  value,  that  beneath  their  external  generosity 
great  and  mighty  passions  are  concealed;  but  he 
would  have  laughed  in  your  face,  if  he  could 
have  guessed  that  you  cherished  such  an  opinion 
concerning  him;  yes,  and,  I  am  bound  to  admit, 
I  think  myself  that  if  my  friend  was  haunted  in 
his  youth  by  any  aspiration,  indistinct  but  power- 
ful, toward  what  is  very  prettily  called  "  some- 
thing higher,"  that  aspiration  had  long,  long  ago 
calmed  down  in  him  and  pined  away. 

He  was  rather  obese,  and  enjoyed  splendid 
health.  In  our  age,  it  is  impossible  not  to  like 
people  who  give  little  thought  to  themselves,  be- 
cause they  are  extremely  rare  ....  and  my 
friend  almost  completely  forgot  his  own  person. 

97 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

However,  I  have  already  said  too  much  about 
him,  I  think— and  my  chattering  is  all  the  more 
ill-placed,  since  he  does  not  serve  as  the  subject 
of  my  story.  His  name  was  Piotr  Feodorovitch 
LutchinofF. 

One  autumn  day,  five  of  us  thorough-going 
sportsmen  had  assembled  together  at  Piotr  Feo- 
dorovitch's.  yVe  had  spent  the  entire  morning 
in  the  fields,  had  coursed  two  wolves  and  a  mul- 
titude of  hares,  and  had  returned  home  in  the 
ravishingly-agreeable  frame  of  mind  which  in- 
vades every  well-regulated  man  after  a  successful 
hunt. 

Twilight  was  descending.  The  wind  was  play- 
ing over  the  dark  fields,  and  noisily  rocking  the 
naked  crests  of  the  birches  and  lindens  which  sur- 
rounded LutchinoiF's  house.  We  arrived,  and 
alighted  from  our  horses.  .  .  On  the  porch  I 
halted  and  glanced  about  me:  long  storm-clouds 
were  crawling  heavily  across  the  grey  sky;  a 
dark-brown  bush  was  writhing  in  the  wind,  and 
creaking  piteously;  the  yellow  grass  bent  feebly 
and  sadly  to  the  ground ;  flocks  of  blackbirds  were 
flying  to  and  fro  among  the  mountain-ash  trees, 
dotted  with  clusters  of  bright-scarlet  berries ;  * 
in  the  slender  and  brittle  branches  of  the  birch- 
trees  tomtits  were  hopping  and  whistling;  the 
dogs  were  barking  hoarsely  in  the  village.  Melan- 

^  A  very  good  preserve,  with  a  slightly  wild  or  bitter  taste,  is  made 
from  these  berries  in  Russia.  It  is  a  favourite  preserve  for  putting 
in  tea.  —  Translator. 

98 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

choly  overpowered  me  ... .  for  which  reason  I  en- 
tered the  dining-room  with  genuine  pleasure.  The 
shutters  were  closed;  on  the  round  table,  covered 
with  a  cloth  of  dazzling  whiteness,  in  the  midst 
of  crystal  caraffes  filled  with  red  wine,  burned 
eight  candles  in  silver  candlesticks;  a  fire  blazed 
merrily  on  the  hearth— and  an  old,  very  comely 
butler,  with  a  huge  bald  spot,  dressed  in  Eng- 
lish fashion,  stood  in  respectful  immobility  in 
front  of  another  table,  which  was  already  adorned 
with  a  large  soup-tureen,  encircled  with  a  light, 
fragrant  steam.  In  the  anteroom  we  had  passed 
another  respectable  man,  engaged  in  cooling 
the  champagne — "  according  to  the  strict  rules 
of  the  art." 

The  dinner  was,  as  is  usual  on  such  occasions, 
extremely  agreeable;  we  laughed,  recounted  the 
incidents  which  had  occurred  during  the  hunt, 
and  recalled  with  rapture  two  notable  "  drives." 
After  having  dined  rather  heartily,  we  disposed 
ourselves  in  broad  arm-chairs  in  front  of  the 
fireplace;  a  capacious  silver  bowl  made  its  ap- 
pearance on  the  table,  and,  a  few  moments  later, 
the  flitting  flame  of  rum  announced  to  us  our 
host's  pleasant  intention  to  "  brew  a  punch." — 
Piotr  Feodorovitch  was  a  man  not  lacking  in 
taste;  he  knew,  for  example,  that  nothing  has 
such  deadly  efl*ect  on  the  fancy  as  the  even,  cold, 
and  pedantic  light  of  lamps— therefore  he  or- 
dered that  only  two  candles  should  be  left  in 

99 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

the  room.  Strange  half -shadows  quivered  on  the 
walls,  produced  by  the  fitful  play  of  the  fire  on 
the  hearth,  and  the  flame  of  the  punch  ....  a 
quiet,  extremely  agreeable  comfort  replaced  in 
our  hearts  the  somewhat  obstreperous  jollity 
which  had  reigned  at  dinner. 

Conversations  have  their  fates— like  books  (ac- 
cording to  the  Latin  apothegm),  like  everything 
in  the  world.  Our  conversation  on  that  evening 
was  peculiarly  varied  and  vivacious.  In  part  it 
rose  to  decidedly  important  general  questions, 
then  lightly  and  unconstrainedly  returned  to  the 
commonplaces  of  everyday  life.  .  .  .  After  chat- 
ting a  good  deal,  we  all  suddenly  fell  silent.  At 
such  times,  they  say,  the  angel  of  silence  flits  past. 

I  do  not  know  why  my  companions  ceased 
talking,  but  I  stopped  because  my  eyes  had  sud- 
denly paused  on  three  dusty  portraits  in  black 
wooden  frames.  The  colours  had  been  rubbed 
off,  and  here  and  there  the  canvas  was  warped, 
but  the  faces  could  still  be  distinguished.  The 
middle  portrait  represented  a  woman,  young  in 
years,  in  a  white  gown  with  lace  borders,  and  a 
tall  coiflPure  of  the  eighties.  On  her  right,  against 
a  perfectly  black  background,  was  visible  the 
round,  fat  face  of  a  good-natured  Russian 
landed  proprietor  five-and-twenty  years  of  age, 
with  a  low,  broad  forehead,  a  stubby  nose,  and  an 
ingenuous  smile.  The  powdered  French  coiff*ure 
лvas  extremely  out  of  keeping  with  the  expres- 

100 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

sion  of  his  Slavonic  countenance.  The  artist  had 
depicted  him  in  a  kaftan  of  crimson  hue  with 
large  strass  buttons;  in  his  hand  he  held  some 
sort  of  unusual  flower.  The  third  portrait, 
painted  by  another  and  more  experienced  hand, 
represented  a  man  of  thirty,  in  a  green  uniform 
of  the  period  of  Katherine  II,  with  red  fac- 
ings, a  white  under-waistcoat,  and  a  thin  batiste 
neckerchief.  With  one  hand  he  leaned  on  a 
cane  with  a  gold  head,  the  other  he  had  thrust 
into  his  waistcoat.  His  thin,  swarthy  face 
breathed  forth  insolent  arrogance.  His  long, 
slender  eyebrows  almost  met  over  his  pitch-black 
eyes;  on  his  pale,  barely-perceptible  lips  played 
an  evil  smile. 

"  What  makes  you  stare  at  those  faces?  " — 
Piotr  Feodorovitch  asked  me. 

"Because!" — I  answered,  looking  at  him. 

"  Would  you  like  to  hear  the  whole  story  about 
those  three  persons?  " 

"  Pray,  do  us  the  favour  to  tell  it," — we  re- 
plied with  one  voice. 

Piotr  Feodorovitch  rose,  took  a  candle,  raised 
it  to  the  portraits,  and  in  the  voice  of  a  man  who 
is  exhibiting  wild  animals,  "Gentlemen!"  he 
proclaimed:  "  this  lady  is  the  adopted  daughter  of 
my  own  great-grandfather,  Olga  Ivanovna  NN., 
called  LutchinofF,  who  died  unmarried  forty 
years  ago.  This  gentleman," — pointing  to  the 
portrait  of  the  man  in  uniform, — "  is  sergeant 

101 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

of  the  Guards,  Vasily  Ivanovitch  Lutchinoff, 
who  departed  this  hfe,  by  the  will  of  God,  in 
the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  ninety. 
And  this  gentleman,  to  whom  I  have  not  the 
honour  to  be  related,  is  a  certain  Pavel  Afana- 
sievitch  RogatchyofF,  who  never  served  any- 
where, so  far  as  I  am  aware.  Please  to  note  the 
hole  which  is  in  his  breast,  in  the  exact  place  of 
the  heart.  This  hole,  which  is,  as  you  see,  regular, 
and  three-cornered,  probably  could  not  have  hap- 
pened accidentally.  .  .  .  Now," — he  went  on  in 
his  ordinary  voice, — "  please  to  take  your  seats, 
arm  yourselves  with  patience,  and  listen." 

Gentlemen  (he  began)  I  descend  from  a 
fairly  ancient  race.  I  am  not  proud  of  my 
descent,  because  mj'^  ancestors  were  all  frightful 
spendthrifts.  This  reproach,  however,  does  not 
apply  to  my  great-grandfather,  Ivan  Andreevitch 
Lutchinoff, — on  the  contrarj^  he  bore  the  repu- 
tation of  being  an  extraordinarily  penurious  and 
even  miserly  man — during  the  last  j^ears  of  his 
life,  at  all  events.  He  passed  his  youth  in  Peters- 
burg, and  was  a  witness  of  Elizaveta's  reign. 
In  Petersburg  he  married,  and  had  by  his  wife, 
who  was  also  my  great-grandmother,  four  chil- 
dren— three  sons,  Vasily,  1л^ап  and  Pavel  (my 
grandfather) ,  and  one  daughter,  Natatya.  In  ad- 
dition to  these,  Ivan  Andreevitch  took  into  his 
family  the  daughter  of  a  distant  relative,  a  full 

102 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

and  nameless  orphan, — Olga  Ivanovna,  of  whom 
I  have  already  spoken.  My  great-grandfather's 
subjects  were,  probably,  aware  of  his  existence, 
because  they  were  in  the  habit  of  sending  to  him 
(when  no  particular  catastrophe  had  happened) 
a  very  considerable  sum  in  quit-rents; — but  they 
had  never  beheld  his  face.  The  village  of  Lutchi- 
novko,  deprived  of  the  light  of  its  master's 
countenance,  was  thriving, — when,  all  of  a  sud- 
den, one  fine  morning,  a  heavy  travelling  carriage 
drove  into  the  village,  and  drew  up  in  front  of 
the  Elder's  cottage.  The  peasants,  startled  by 
such  an  unprecedented  event,  flocked  thither  and 
beheld  their  master,  mistress,  and  all  the  pair's 
offspring,  with  the  exception  of  the  eldest,  Vasfly, 
who  had  remained  in  Petersburg.  From  that 
memorable  day  forth,  and  to  the  very  day  of  his 
death,  Ivan  Andreevitch  never  quitted  Lutchi- 
novko.  He  built  himself  a  house,  this  very  house 
in  which  I  now  have  the  pleasure  of  chatting 
with  you;  he  also  built  the  church,  and  began 
to  live  the  life  of  a  landed  proprietor.  Ivan  An- 
dreevitch was  a  man  of  huge  stature,  gaunt, 
taciturn,  and  extremely  slow  in  all  his  move- 
ments; he  never  wore  a  dressing-gown,  and  no 
one,  with  the  exception  of  his  valet,  had  ever  seen 
him  with  unpowdered  hair.  Ivan  Andreevitch 
habitually  walked  with  his  hands  clasped  behind 
his  back,  slowly  turning  his  head  at  every  step. 
Every  day  he  walked  in  the  long  linden  alley, 

103 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

which  he  had  planted  with  his  own  hands, — and 
before  his  death  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  en- 
joying the  shade  of  those  hndens. 

Ivan  Andreevitch  was  extremely  parsimonious 
of  his  words;  this  remarkable  circumstance  may 
serve  as  a  proof  of  his  taciturnity — that  in  the 
space  of  twenty  years  he  never  said  a  single  word 
to  his  spouse,  Anna  Pavlovna.  Altogether,  his 
relations  to  Anna  Pavlovna  were  of  a  very 
strange  nature.  —  She  administered  all  the  domes- 
tic affairs,  at  dinner  she  always  sat  by  her  hus- 
band's side,— he  would  ruthlessly  have  chastised 
any  man  who  presumed  to  utter  one  disrespectful 
word  to  her, —  and  yet  he  himself  never  spoke 
to  her,  and  never  touched  her  hand.  Anna 
Pavlovna  was  a  pale,  timid,  crushed  woman; 
every  day  she  prayed  in  church  on  her  knees/ 
and  never  smiled.  It  was  said  that  formerly, 
that  is  to  say,  before  their  arrival  in  the  coun- 
try, they  had  lived  in  grand  style;  it  was  said, 
also,  that  Anna  Pavlovna  had  broken  her  mari- 
tal vows,  that  her  husband  had  found  out  about 
her  fault.  .  .  .  However  that  may  have  been, 
Ivan  Andreevitch,  even  when  he  lay  dying,  did 

^  Except  during  Lent,  and  for  special  prayers  on  Christmas  Day, 
New  Year's  Day  and  Pentecost  (Trinity  Sunday),  hardly  any  kneel- 
ing is  prescribed  by  the  rubrics  of  the  Eastern  Catholic  Church. 
During  Easter-tide  and  on  all  Sundays  it  is  forbidden  by  the  rubrics, 
on  the  ground  that  joy  in  the  resurrection  should  overpower  the  sense 
of  sin  and  contrition.  These  rules  are  not  always  regarded.  But  a 
person  who  kneels  much  is  conspicuous,  and  spectators  assume  that  the 
posture  indicates  great  grief  or  contrition— as  above.  — Teanslator. 

104 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

not  become  reconciled  to  her.  She  never  left  him 
during  his  last  illness;  but  he  seemed  not  to  no- 
tice her.  One  night,  Anna  Рал^1оупа  was  sitting 
in  Ivan  Andreevitch's  bedroom;  he  was  tortured 
with  insomnia;  the  shrine-lamp  was  burning  in 
front  of  the  holy  picture ;  my  great-grandfather's 
servant,  Yiiditch,  concerning  луЬот  I  shall  have 
a  couple  of  words  to  say  to  you  hereafter,  had 
left  the  room.  Anna  Pavlovna  rose,  crossed  the 
chamber,  and  flung  herself,  sobbing,  on  her 
knees  before  her  husband's  bed,  tried  to  say  some- 
thing— and  stretched  out  her  arms.  .  .  .  Ivan 
Andreevitch  looked  at  her — and  shouted  in  a 
weak  but  firm  voice:  "  Man!  "  The  servant  en- 
tered. Anna  Pavlovna  hastily  rose  to  her  feet, 
and  returned,  reeling,  to  her  place. 

Ivan  Andreevitch's  children  were  extremely 
afraid  of  him.  They  grew  up  in  the  country, 
and  were  witnesses  of  Ivan  Andreevitch's  strange 
behaviour  to  his  wife.  They  all  passionately  loved 
Anna  Pavlovna,  but  dared  not  express  their  love. 
She  herself  seemed  to  shun  them.  .  .  .  You  re- 
member my  grandfather,  gentlemen:  to  the  day 
of  his  death,  he  always  used  to  go  about  on  tip- 
toe, and  he  spoke  in  a  whisper  ....  that  's 
what  habit  will  do!  My  grandfather  and  his 
brother  Ivan  Ivanovitch  were  plain,  kind,  peace- 
able and  melancholy  people;  my  grand' tante 
Natalya  married  a  coarse,  stupid  man,  as  you 
know,  and  until  her  death  cherished  for  him  a 

105 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

dumb,  servile,  sheep-like  love;  but  their  brother 
Vasily  was  not  like  that. 

I  think  I  have  told  you  that  Ivan  Andreevitch 
left  him  in  Petersburg.  He  was  twenty  years 
old  at  the  time.  His  father  confided  him  to  the 
care  of  a  distant  relative,  a  man  no  longer  young, 
a  bachelor  and  a  frightful  Voltairian. 

Vasily  grew  up,  and  entered  the  service.  He 
was  small  of  stature,  but  well  built  and  extremely 
agile;  he  spoke  French  splendidly,  and  was  re- 
nowned for  his  skill  at  fighting  with  the  broad- 
sword. He  was  considered  one  of  the  most  bril- 
liant young  men  of  the  beginning  of  Katherine 
II's  reign.  My  father  often  told  me  that  he  knew 
more  than  one  old  woman  who  could  not  men- 
tion Vasily  Ivanovitch  Lutchinoff  without  heart- 
felt emotion.  Picture  to  yourself  a  man  gifted 
with  remarkable  strength  of  will,  passionate  and 
calculating,  patient  and  daring,  secretive  to  the 
last  degree  and — according  to  the  words  of  all 
his  contemporaries — bewitchingly,  enchantingly 
amiable.  He  had  neither  conscience  nor  good- 
nature nor  honour,  although  no  one  could  call 
him  a  positively  bad  man.  He  was  selfish — but 
knew  how  to  conceal  his  selfishness,  and  was  pas- 
sionately fond  of  independence.  When  Vasily 
Ivanovitch  used,  smilingly,  to  screw  up  his  black 
eyes,  when  he  wanted  to  fascinate  any  one,  they 
say  that  it  was  impossible  to  resist  him — and 
even  people  who  were  convinced  of  the  coldness 

106 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

and  hardness  of  his  spirit  more  than  once  sur- 
rendered to  the  bewitching  power  of  his  influence. 
He  zealously  served  himself,  and  made  others 
toil  also  for  his  benefit,  and  always  succeeded  in 
everything,  because  he  never  lost  his  head,  did 
not  disdain  flattery  as  a  means,  and  understood 
how  to  flatter. 

Ten  years  after  Ivan  Andreevitch  settled  in 
the  countr)^  he  came  to  Lutchlnoл^ko  as  a  bril- 
liant officer  of  the  Guards,  for  four  months, — 
and  in  that  space  of  time  succeeded  in  turning 
the  head  even  of  the  surly  old  man,  his  father. 
It  is  strange!  Ivan  Andreevitch  listened  with 
delight  to  his  son's  tales  of  his  conquests.  His 
brothers  were  dumb  in  his  presence,  and  admired 
him  as  a  superior  being.  And  even  Anna  Pav- 
lovna  herself  came  to  love  him  almost  more 
than  all  her  other  children,  who  were  so  sincerely 
devoted  to  her. 

Vasfly  Ivanoлatch  came  to  the  country,  in  the 
first  place,  in  order  to  see  his  relatiл^es;  but,  in 
the  second  place  also,  in  order  to  get  as  much 
money  as  possible  out  of  his  father.  He  had 
lived  sumptuously  and  kept  open  house  in  Peters- 
burg, and  had  contracted  a  multitude  of  debts. 
It  was  not  easy  for  him  to  reconcile  himself  to 
his  parent's  stinginess,  and,  although  Ivan  An- 
dreevitch gave  him  for  his  trip  alone  more  money, 
in  all  probability,  than  he  gave  all  his  other  chil- 
dren in  the  space  of  the  twenty  years  which  they 

107 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

spent  in  the  paternal  house,  yet  Vasily  stuck 
to  the  famihar  Russian  rule:  "  Take  all  you  can 
get!" 

Ivan  Andreevitch  had  a  servant,  Yuditch  by 
name,  as  tall,  gaunt,  and  taciturn  a  man  as  his 
master.  They  say  that  this  Yuditch  was,  in  part, 
the  cause  of  the  strange  behaviour  of  Ivan  An- 
dreevitch to  Anna  Pavlovna:  they  say  that  it 
was  he  who  discovered  the  guilty  liaison  of  my 
great -grandmother  with  one  of  my  great-grand- 
father's best  friends.  Probably  Yuditch  deeply 
repented  of  his  ill-judged  zeal,  because  it  would 
be  difficult  to  conceive  of  a  more  kind-hearted 
man.  His  memory  is  held  sacred  to  this  day  by 
all  my  house-serfs.  Yuditch  enjoyed  the  un- 
bounded confidence  of  my  great-grandfather. 
At  that  period,  landed  proprietors  had  money, 
but  did  not  hand  it  over  to  loan  institutions  for 
safe-keeping,  but  kept  it  themselves  in  coffers, 
in  cellars,  and  the  like.  Ivan  Andreevitch  kept 
all  his  money  in  a  huge  iron-bound  coffer,  which 
stood  under  the  head  of  his  bed.  The  key  to 
this  coffer  was  handed  over  to  Yuditch.  Every 
evening,  when  he  went  to  bed,  Ivan  Andreevitch 
ordered  this  chest  to  be  opened  in  his  presence, 
tapped  all  the  tightly-stuffed  sacks  in  turn  with 
his  cane,  and  on  Saturdays,  he  and  Yuditch  un- 
tied the  sacks  and  carefully  counted  over  the 
money. 

Vasily  found  out  about  all  these  performances 
108 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

and  was  fired  with  a  desire  to  rummage  a  bit 
in  the  sacred  coffer.  In  the  course  of  five  or  six 
days  he  mollified  Yuditch,  that  is  to  say,  he  re- 
duced the  poor  old  fellow  to  such  a  state  that — as 
the  saying  is — he  fairly  worshipped  his  young 
master.  After  having  properly  prepared  him, 
Vasily  assumed  a  careworn  and  gloomy  aspect, 
for  a  long  time  refused  to  answer  Yuditch's  in- 
quiries and,  at  last,  told  him  that  he  had  gam- 
bled away  all  his  money,  and  intended  to  lay 
violent  hands  on  himself  if  he  did  not  obtain 
money  from  somewhere.  Yuditch  began  to  sob, 
flung  himself  on  his  knees  before  him,  begged 
him  to  remember  God,  not  to  ruin  his  soul.  Va- 
sily, without  uttering  a  word,  locked  himself  up 
in  his  chamber.  After  a  while,  he  heard  some 
one  knocking  cautiously  on  his  door.  He  opened 
the  door  and  beheld  on  the  threshold  Yuditch, 
pale  and  trembling,  with  a  key  in  his  hands. 
Vasily  immediately  understood  everything.  At 
fii'st  he  resisted  for  a  long  time.  Yuditch  kept 
repeating  with  tears:  "Pray,  master,  take  it!" 
.  .  ,  At  last,  Vasily  consented.  This  happened 
on  Monday.  The  idea  occurred  to  Vasily  to  re- 
place the  money  he  abstracted  with  bits  of  glass. 
He  reckoned  on  Ivan  Andreevitch's  not  paying 
any  special  heed  to  the  barely  perceptible  differ- 
ence in  the  sound  when  he  tapped  the  sacks  with 
his  cane, — and  by  Saturday  he  hoped  to  obtain 
money  and  replace  it  in  the  sacks.     No  sooner 

109 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

thought  than  done.  His  father,  in  fact,  did  not 
notice  anything.  But  Vasily  did  not  obtain 
money  by  Saturday:  he  had  hoped,  with  the 
money  he  had  taken,  to  clean  out  at  the  card-table 
a  certain  wealthy  neighbour— and,  on  the  con- 
trary, he  lost  everything  himself.  In  the  mean- 
time, Saturday  arrived;  the  turn  came  for  the 
sacks  stuffed  with  bits  of  glass.  Picture  to  your- 
selves, gentlemen,  the  amazement  of  Ivan  An- 
dreevitch ! 

"What  's  the  meaning  of  this?"— he  thun- 
dered. 

Yuditch  made  no  reply. 

"Hast  thou  stolen  this  money? " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Then  has  some  one  taken  the  key  from  thee?  " 

"  I  have  not  given  the  key  to  any  one." 

"  Not  to  any  one?  If  thou  hast  not  given  it 
to  any  one — thou  art  the  thief.    Confess!  " 

"  I  am  not  a  thief,  Ivan  Andreevitch." 

"  Whence  came  these  bits  of  glass,  damn  it? 
So  thou  art  deceiving  me?  For  the  last  time 
I  say  to  thee — confess!  " 

Yuditch  hung  his  head  and  clasped  his  hands 
behind  his  back. 

"Hey  there,  people!"  shouted  Ivan  Andree- 
vitch in  a  raging  voice. — "  The  rods!  " 

"What?  You  mean  to  ...  .  whip  .  .  . 
me? "  whispered  Yuditch. 

"  Thou  shalt  catch  it !  And  how  art  thou  any 
110 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

better  than  the  rest?  Thou  art  a  thief!  Well, 
now,  Yuditch!  I  had  not  expected  such  rascality 
from  thee!  " 

"  I  have  grown  grey  in  your  service,  Ivan  An- 
dreevitch,"  said  Yuditch  with  an  effort. 

"  And  what  care  I  about  thy  grey  hair?  May 
the  devil  take  thee  and  thy  service! " 

The  people  entered. 

"  Take  him,  and  give  him  a  good  flogging!  " 

Ivan  Andreevitch's  lips  were  pale  and  trem- 
bling. He  ramped  about  the  room  like  a  wild 
beast  in  a  confined  cage. 

The  men  did  not  dare  to  execute  his  com- 
mands. 

"  What  are  you  standing  there  for,  you  vile 
serfs  ?  have  I  got  to  lay  hands  on  him  myself,  I  'd 
like  to  know?  " 

Yuditch  started  for  the  door. 

"Stop!"  yelled  Ivan  Andreevitch.-"  Yu- 
ditch, for  the  last  time  I  say  to  thee,  I  entreat 
thee,  Yuditch,  confess." 

"  I  cannot,"  moaned  Yuditch. 

"  Then  seize  him,  the  old  sycophant!  .  .  . 
Flog  him  to  death!  On  my  head  be  it!  "  thun- 
dered the  maddened  old  man.  The  torture  be- 
gan. .  .  . 

Suddenly  the  door  flew  open,  and  Vasfly  en- 
tered. He  was  almost  paler  than  his  father,  his 
hands  trembled,  his  upper  lip  was  raised  and  dis- 
closed a  row  of  white,  even  teeth. 

Ill 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

"  I  am  guilty,"  he  said  in  a  dull  but  steady- 
voice.— "  I  took  the  money." 

The  men  stopped  short. 

"  Thou!  what?  !  thou,  Vaska!  without  the  con- 
sent of  Yiiditch? " 

"No!" — said  Yuditch: — "with  my  consent. 
I  myself  gave  the  key  to  Vasily  Ivanovitch.  Dear 
little  father,  Vasily  Ivanovitch!  why  have  you 
deigned  to  trouble  yourself?  " 

"  So  that  's  who  the  thief  is!  " — shouted  Ivan 
Andreevitch.— "  Thanks,  Vasily,  thanks!  But 
I  shall  not  spare  thee,  Yuditch,  all  the  same. 
Why  didst  not  thou  confess  all  to  me  at  once? 
Hey,  there,  you!  why  have  you  stopped?  or  do 
you  no  longer  recognise  my  authority?  And 
I  '11  settle  with  you,  my  dear  little  dove !  "  he 
added,  turning  to  Vasily. 

The  men  were  on  the  point  of  setting  to  work 
again  on  Yuditch. 

"  Don't  touch  him!  "  whispered  Vasfly  through 
his  teeth.  The  servants  did  not  heed  him. 
— "  Back!  "  he  shouted,  and  hurled  himself  upon 
them.  .  .  .  They  staggered  back.  ' 

"Ah!  a  rebel!" — moaned  Ivan  Andreevitch, 
and  raising  his  cane,  he  advanced  on  his  son. 

Vasily  leaped  aside,  grasped  the  hilt  of  his 
sword,  and  bared  it  half-way.  All  began  to 
tremble.  Anna  Pavlovna,  attracted  by  the  noise, 
frightened  and  pale,  made  her  appearance  in  the 
doorway. 

112 


THREE  PORTRAITS 

Ivan  Andreevitch's  face  underwent  a  frightful 
change.  He  staggered,  dropped  his  cane,  and 
fell  heavily  into  an  arm-chair,  covering  his  face 
with  both  hands.  No  one  stirred;  all  stood  as 
though  rooted  to  the  spot,  not  excepting  even 
Vasily.  He  convulsively  gripped  the  steel  hilt 
of  his  sword,  his  eyes  flashed  with  a  morose,  evil 
gleam.  .  .  . 

"  Go  away  all  .  .  .  begone," — said  Ivan  An- 
dreevitch  in  a  low  voice,  without  removing  his 
hands  from  his  face. 

The  whole  throng  withdrew.  Vasfly  halted  on 
the  threshold,  then  suddenly  tossed  his  head,  em- 
braced Yiiditch,  kissed  his  mother's  hand  .  .  . 
and  two  hours  later  he  was  no  longer  in  the  vil- 
lage.   He  had  departed  for  Petersburg. 

On  the  evening  of  that  day,  Yuditch  was  sit- 
ting on  the  porch  of  the  house-serfs'  cottage. 
The  servants  swarmed  around  him,  pitied  him, 
and  bitterly  blamed  the  master. 

"  Stop,  my  lads,"  he  said  to  them  at  last; — 
"  enough  of  that  ....  why  do  you  abuse  him? 
I  don't  believe  that  he,  our  dear  little  father,  is 
pleased  himself  with  his  desperate  deed.  .  .  ." 

As  a  result  of  this  affair,  Vasily  never  saw  his 
parents  again.  Ivan  Andreevitch  died  without 
him,  probably  with  such  grief  at  his  heart  as  may 
God  spare  any  of  us  from  experiencing.  In  the 
meantime,  Vasily  Ivanovitch  went  out  in  society, 
made  merry  after  his  own  fashion,  and  squan- 

113 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

dered  money.  How  he  obtained  the  money,  I 
cannot  say  with  certainty.  He  procured  for  him- 
self a  French  servant,  a  clever  and  intelligent 
young  fellow,  a  certain  Boursier.  This  man  be- 
came passionately  attached  to  him,  and  aided 
him  in  all  his  numerous  performances.  I  have  no 
intention  of  narrating  to  you  in  detail  all  the 
pranks  of  my  great-uncle;  he  distinguished  him- 
self by  such  unbounded  audacity,  such  snaky 
tact,  such  incredible  cold-bloodedness,  such  adroit 
and  subtle  wit,  that,  I  must  confess,  I  can  under- 
stand the  limitless  power  of  that  unprincipled 
man  over  the  most  noble  souls.  .  .  . 

Soon  after  his  father's  death,  Vasily  Iva- 
novitch,  notwithstanding  all  his  tact,  was  chal- 
lenged to  a  duel  by  an  outraged  husband.  He 
fought,  severely  wounded  his  antagonist,  and 
was  forced  to  quit  the  capital:  he  was  ordered 
to  reside  permanently  on  his  hereditary  estate. 
Vasfly  Ivanovitch  was  thirty  years  of  age.  You 
can  easily  imagine,  gentlemen,  with  what  feelings 
this  man,  лvho  had  become  accustomed  to  the 
brilliant  life  of  the  capital,  journeyed  to  his  na- 
tive place.  They  say  that,  on  the  road,  he  fre- 
quently got  out  of  his  kibitka,  flung  himself  face 
down  on  the  snow,  and  wept.  No  one  in  Lu- 
tchinovko  recognised  the  former  jolly,  amiable 
Vasily  Ivanovitch.  He  spoke  to  no  one,  he  went 
oiF  hunting  from  morning  until  night,  with  visi- 
ble impatience  endured  the  timid  caresses  of  his 

114 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

mother,  and  jeered  pitilessly  at  his  brothers,  and 
at  their  wives  (both  of  them  were  already  mar- 
ried). .  .  . 

So  far  I  have  said  nothing  to  you,  I  believe, 
about  Olga  Ivanovna.  She  had  been  brought 
to  Lutchmovko  as  an  infant  at  the  breast;  she 
had  ahnost  died  on  the  way.  Olga  Ivanovna  had 
been  reared,  as  the  saying  is,  in  the  fear  of  God 
and  of  her  parents.  ...  It  must  be  confessed 
that  Ivan  Andreevitch  and  Anna  Pavlovna  both 
treated  her  like  a  daughter.  But  there  was  con- 
cealed in  her  a  feeble  spark  of  that  fire  which 
blazed  so  brightly  in  the  soul  of  Vasily  Ivano- 
vitch.  In  the  meantime,  while  Ivan  Andree- 
vitch's  own  children  did  not  dare  to  indulge  in 
conjectures  concerning  the  strange,  sj)eechless 
quarrel  between  their  parents,  Olga,  from  her 
earliest  years  had  been  disturbed  and  pained  by 
the  position  of  Anna  Pavlovna.  Like  Vasily,  she 
loved  independence;  all  oppression  revolted  her. 
She  had  attached  herself  to  her  benefactress  with 
all  the  powers  of  her  soul;  she  hated  old  Lutchi- 
nofF,  and  more  than  once,  as  she  sat  at  table,  she 
had  fixed  upon  him  such  sombre  glances,  that  even 
the  man  who  was  serving  the  viands  felt  fright- 
ened. Ivan  Andreevitch  did  not  notice  all  those 
glances,  because,  in  general,  he  paid  no  attention 
whatever  to  his  family. 

At  first,  Anna  Pavlovna  endeavoured  to  ex- 
terminate this  hatred  in  her— but  several  bold 

115 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

questions  on  Olga's  part  forced  her  to  complete 
silence.  Ivan  Andreevitch's  children  adored 
Olga,  and  the  old  woman  loved  her  also,  although 
with  rather  a  cold  affection. 

Prolonged  sorrow  had  crushed  all  cheerfulness, 
all  strong  feeling,  in  this  poor  woman;  nothing 
so  clearly  proves  Vasily's  bewitching  amiability 
as  the  fact  that  he  made  even  his  mother  love  him 
ardently.  Effusions  of  tenderness  on  the  part 
of  children  was  not  in  the  spirit  of  that  age,  and 
therefore  it  is  not  surprising  that  Olga  did  not 
venture  to  display  her  devotion,  although  she 
always  kissed  Anna  Pavlovna's  hand  with  par- 
ticular respect  in  the  evening,  when  she  bade  her 
good-night.  She  was  barely  able  to  read  and 
write.  Twenty  years  later,  Russian  girls  began 
to  read  novels  in  the  style  of  the  "  Adventures  of 
Marquis  G***,"— "  Fanfan  and  Lolotte,"— of 
"Alexyei;  or.  The  Cot  in  the  Forest ";— they 
began  to  learn  to  play  on  the  clavichord  and  to 
sing  romances  in  the  style  of  the  following,  once 
very  familiar  song : 

"Men  in  the  light 
CHng  to  us  like  flies  '"* — and  so  forth. 

But  in  the  '70s  (Olga  Ivanovna  was  born  in  the 
year  1757) ,  our  rustic  beauties  had  no  concep- 
tion of  all  these  accomplishments.  It  луоиИ  be 
difficult  for  us  now  to  picture  to  ourselves   a 

116 


THREE  PORTRAITS 

young  Russian  girl  of  good  birth  of  that  epoch. 
We  can,  it  is  true,  judge  from  our  grandmothers 
as  to  the  degree  of  education  of  noble  gentle- 
women in  the  times  of  Katherine  II;  but  how  is 
one  to  distinguish  that  which  was  inculcated  in 
them  in  the  course  of  their  long  life,  from  that 
which  they  were  in  the  days  of  their  youth? 

Olga  Ivanovna  spoke  a  little  French,  but  with 
a  strong  Russian  accent ;  in  her  day,  there  was  no 
thought  of  such  a  thing  as  the  emigres}  In  a 
word,  with  all  her  good  qualities,  she  was,  never- 
theless, a  decided  savage,  and,  probably,  in  the 
simplicity  of  her  heart,  she  more  than  once  ad- 
ministered chastisement  with  her  own  hands  to 
some  unlucky  maid.  .  .  . 

Some  time  before  Vasily  Ivanovitch's  arrival, 
Olga  Ivanovna  had  been  betrothed  to  a  neigh- 
bour,— Pavel  Afanasievitch  RogatchyofF,  an  ex- 
tremely good-natured  and  honourable  man.  Na- 
ture had  forgotten  to  endow  him  with  gall.  His 
own  servants  did  not  obey  him;  they  sometimes 
all  went  oiF,  from  the  first  to  the  last  of  them, 
and  left  poor  Rogatchyoff  without  any  dinner 
.  .  ,  but  nothing  could  disturb  the  tranquillity 
of  his  soul.  He  had  been  distinguished,  even 
from  his  childhood,  by  his  obesity  and  sluggish- 
ness; he  had  never  served  anywhere,  and  he  was 

^  Many  exiles  caused  by  the  French  Revolution  found  refuge  in 
Russia  as  tutors.  Some  founded  families  there,  intermarrying  with 
Russians,  and  their  Russified  names  are  easily  recognisable.— Trans- 
lator. 

117 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

fond  of  going  to  church  and  singing  in  the  choir. 
Look  at  that  good-natured,  round  face,  gentle- 
men; gaze  at  that  tranquil,  brilliant  smile  .... 
does  not  it  make  you  feel  cheerful  yourselves? 
Once  in  a  while  his  father  had  driven  over  to 
Lutchinovko,  and  had  brought  with  him,  on  fes- 
tival days,  his  Pavlusha,  whom  the  little  Lutchi- 
nolFs  tormented  in  every  possible  way.  Pavlusha 
grew  up,  began  to  go  to  Ivan  Andreevitch's  of 
his  own  accord,  fell  in  love  with  Olga  Ivanovna, 
and  offered  her  his  hand  and  his  heart— not  to 
her  personally,  but  to  her  benefactors.  Her 
benefactors  gave  their  consent.  They  never  even 
thought  of  asking  Olga  Ivanovna  whether  she 
liked  RogatchyofF.  At  that  epoch, — as  our 
grandmothers  used  to  say, — "  such  luxuries  were 
not  in  fashion."  But  Olga  speedily  got  used  to 
her  betrothed:  it  was  impossible  not  to  grow  at- 
tached to  that  gentle,  indulgent  being. 

RogatchyofF  had  received  no  education  what- 
soever; all  he  could  say  in  French  was  "  bon- 
zhour  " — and  in  secret  he  even  regarded  that  word 
as  improper.  And  some  jester  had  also  taught 
him  the  following,  which  professed  to  be  a  French 
song:  "  Sonetchka,  Sonetchka!  Que  voulez-vous 
de  moi — I  adore  you — mais  je  ne  peux  pas."  .  .  . 
He  was  always  humming  this  song  in  an  under- 
tone when  he  felt  in  good  spirits.  His  father 
also  was  a  man  of  indescribably  kind  dispo- 
sition; he  was  forever  going  about  in   a  long 

118 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

nankeen  coat,  and  no  matter  what  was  said  to  him, 
he  assented  to  everything  лvith  a  smile. 

From  the  time  of  Pavel  Afanasieлdtch's  be- 
trothal both  the  Rog-atchyoifs — father  and  son — 
began  to  bustle  about  frightfully ;  they  made  over 
their  house,  they  built  on  various  "  galleries,"  they 
chatted  in  friendly  wise  with  the  workmen,  they 
treated  them  to  vodka.  They  did  not  manage 
to  finish  all  the  additional  building  by  winter — so 
they  deferred  the  wedding  until  the  summer;  in 
the  summer,  Ivan  Andreevitch  died — and  thewed- 
ding  was  postponed  until  the  following  spring; 
in  the  winter,  Vasily  Ivanovitch  arrived.  Ro- 
gatchyoff  was  introduced  to  him ;  Vasily  received 
him  coldly  and  carelessly,  and  in  the  course  of 
time,  frightened  him  to  such  a  degree  by  his  arro- 
gant treatment  that  poor  Rogatchyoif  quivered 
like  a  leaf  at  his  mere  appearance,  maintained  si- 
lence, and  smiled  constrainedly.  Vasily  once  came 
near  driving  him  off  for  good — by  offering  to  bet 
with  him  that  he,  RogatchyofF,  was  unable  to 
stop  smiling.  Poor  Pavel  Afanasievitch  almost 
wept  with  confusion,  but — 't  is  an  actual  fact! — 
the  smile,  the  л^егу  stupid,  constrained  smile, 
would  not  quit  his  face !  And  Vasily  slowly  toyed 
with  the  ends  of  his  neckcloth,  and  stared  at  him 
in  quite  too  scornful  a  manner. 

Pavel  Afanasievitch's  father  also  learned  of 
Vasily 's  arrival,  and  a  few  days  later — for  the 
sake  of  "  the  greater  solemnity  " — he  set  out  for 

119 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

Lutchmovko  with  the  intention  of  "  congratu- 
lating the  amiable  visitor  on  his  arrival  in  his 
native  parts."  Afanasy  Afanasievitch  was  re- 
nowned throughout  the  whole  countryside  for  his 
eloquence— that  is  to  say,  for  his  ability  to  utter, 
without  hesitation,  a  rather  long  and  cunningly- 
concocted  speech,  with  a  slight  admixture  of 
bookish  words.  Alas!  on  this  occasion  he  did 
not  maintain  his  reputation;  he  became  confused 
much  worse  than  his  son,  Pavel  Afanasievitch. 
He  stammered  out  something  very  unintelligible, 
and,  although  he  had  never  touched  vodka  in  his 
life,  having  this  time,  "  by  way  of  countenance," 
drunk  a  small  glassful  (he  had  found  Vasily 
at  luncheon),  he  had  endeavoured,  at  least,  to 
clear  his  throat  with  a  certain  amount  of  inde- 
pendence, and  had  not  produced  the  smallest 
sound.  As  he  set  out  for  home,  Pavel  Afanasie- 
vitch whispered  to  his  parent :  "  Well,  dear  little 
father?  "  Afanasy  Lukitch  replied  to  him  with 
irritation,  also  in  a  whisper:  "  Don't  mention  it!  " 
The  RogatchyofFs  began  to  come  more  rarely 
to  Lutchinovko.  But  they  were  not  the  only 
ones  whom  Vasily  intimidated:  he  aroused  in 
his  brothers,  in  their  wives,  even  in  Anna  Pav- 
lovna  herself,  a  painful  and  involuntary  sense  of 
discomfort  ....  they  began  to  avoid  him  in  all 
possible  ways.  Vasily  could  not  help  noticing 
this,  but,  apparently,  he  had  no  intention  of  al- 
tering his  behaviour  to  them,  when,  all  of  a  sud- 

120 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

den,  at  the  beginning  of  the  spring,  he  again  re- 
vealed himself  as  the  same  amiable,  charming  man 
they  had  previously  known  him  to  be.  .  .  . 

The  first  revelation  of  this  sudden  change  was 
on  the  occasion  of  Vasily's  unexpected  call  on 
the  RogatchyofFs.  Afanasy  Lukitch,  in  particu- 
lar, was  thoroughly  daunted  by  the  sight  of  Lu- 
tchinoiF's  calash,  but  his  fear  very  speedily  van- 
ished. Never  had  Vasily  been  more  amiable  and 
merry.  He  linked  his  arm  in  the  arm  of  young 
RogatchyofF,  walked  out  with  him  to  inspect  the 
buildings,  chatted  with  the  carpenters,  gave  them 
advice,  himself  made  a  few  notches  with  the  axe, 
ordered  them  to  show  him  Afanasy  Lukitch's 
stud-horses,  himself  drove  them  at  the  end  of 
a  rope — and  altogether,  by  his  cordial  amiability, 
reduced  the  kind-hearted  steppe-dwellers  to  such 
a  condition  that  they  both  repeatedly  embraced 
him.  At  home,  also,  Vasily  turned  all  heads  for 
a  few  days  as  of  yore :  he  devised  various  amusing 
games,  he  procured  musicians,  invited  in  the 
neighbours  of  both  sexes,  narrated  the  tittle-tattle 
of  the  town  to  the  old  ladies  in  the  most  diverting 
manner,  paid  some  court  to  the  young  women, 
invented  unheard-of  amusements,  fireworks,  and 
so  forth: — in  a  word,  he  enlivened  everything  and 
everybody.  The  sad,  gloomy  house  of  the  Lu- 
tchinofFs  was  suddenly  converted  into  a  noisy, 
brilliant,  enchanting  sort  of  dwelling,  of  which  the 
whole  countryside  talked.— This  sudden  change 

121 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

amazed  many,  delighted  all,  and  various  rumours 
got  into  circulation;  the  knowing  ones  said  that 
some  hidden  trouble  had,  up  to  that  time,  been 
afflicting  Vasily  Ivanovitch,  that  the  possibility 
of  returning  to  the  capital  had  presented  itself  to 
him.  .  .  .  But  no  one  divined  the  true  cause  of 
Vasily  Ivanovitch's  regeneration. 

Olga  Ivanovna,  gentlemen,  was  very  far  from 
being  uncomely. — But  her  beauty  consisted 
rather  in  remarkable  softness  and  freshness  of 
person,  in  a  tranquil  charm  of  movement,  than  in 
strict  regularity  of  features.  Nature  had  en- 
dowed her  with  a  certain  independence;  her  edu- 
cation— she  had  been  reared  an  orphan — had  de- 
veloped in  her  caution  and  firmness.  Olga  did 
not  belong  to  the  category  of  quiet  and  languid 
young  gentlewomen;  but  one  feeling  alone  had 
fully  ripened  in  her:  hatred  for  her  benefactor. 
However,  other  and  more  womanly  passions  also 
could  flame  up  in  Olga  Ivanovna's  soul  with  un- 
usual, unhealthy  force  ....  but  there  was  in 
her  none  of  that  proud  coldness,  nor  that  compact 
strength  of  soul,  nor  that  selfish  concentration, 
without  which  every  passion  speedily  vanishes. — 
The  first  outbursts  of  such  half -active,  half -pas- 
sive souls  are  sometimes  remarkably  violent;  but 
they  very  soon  undergo  a  change,  especially  when 
it  becomes  a  question  of  the  ruthless  application 
of  accepted  principles;  they  fear  the  conse- 
quences. .  .  .  And,  yet,  gentlemen,  I  must  con- 

122 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

fess  to  you  frankly:  women  of  that  sort  produce 
upon  me  a  very  strong  impression.  .  .  . 

(At  these  words,  the  narrator  tossed  oiF  a  glass 
of  water  at  one  draught.— "  Nonsense!  non- 
sense! " — I  thought,  as  I  looked  at  his  round  chin: 
— "  on  you,  my  dear  friend,  no  one  in  the  world 
produces  '  a  very  strong  impression.'  ")    ... 

Piotr  Feodorovitch  went  on : 

Gentlemen,  I  believe  in  blood,  in  race.  There  was 
more  blood  in  Olga  Ivanovna,  than,  for  example, 
in  her  nominal  sister — Natalya.  How  did  that 
"  blood  "  show  itself? — you  ask  me. — Why,  in 
everything ;  in  the  outline  of  her  hands  and  of  her 
lips,  in  the  sound  of  her  voice,  in  her  glance,  in  her 
walk,  in  the  way  she  dressed  her  hair, — in  the  folds 
of  her  gown,  in  short.  In  all  these  trifles  there  was 
a  certain  hidden  something,  although  I  must  ad- 
mit that  that  ....  how  shall  I  express  it?  ...  . 
that  distinction  which  had  fallen  to  the  lot  of  Olga 
Ivanovna  would  not  have  attracted  the  attention 
of  Vasily  if  he  had  met  her  in  Petersburg.  But 
in  the  country,  in  the  wilds,  she  not  only  excited 
his  attention, — but  even,  altogether,  was  the  sole 
cause  of  the  change  of  which  I  have  just  spoken. 
Judge  for  yourselves:  Vasfly  Ivanovitch  was 
fond  of  enjoying  life;  he  could  not  help  being 
bored  in  the  country;  his  brothers  were  kind- 
hearted  fellows,  but  extremely  limited  in  mind; 

123 


THREE  PORTRAITS 

he  had  nothing  in  common  with  them.  His  sis- 
ter Natalya  and  her  husband  had  had  four  chil- 
dren in  the  space  of  three  years ;  between  her  and 
Vasily  lay  a  whole  abyss.  .  .  Anna  Pavlovna 
went  to  church,  prayed,  fasted,  and  prepared  her- 
self for  death.  There  remained  only  Olga,  a  rosy, 
timid,  charming  young  girl.  .  .  At  first  Vasily 
did  not  notice  her  .  .  .  and  who  would  turn  his 
attention  on  an  adopted  child,  an  orphan,  a 
foundling?  ....  One  day,  at  the  very  begin- 
ning of  spring,  he  was  walking  through  the  gar- 
den, and  with  his  cane  switching  off  the  heads  of 
the  chicory,  those  stupid  yellow  flowers  which 
make  their  appearance  in  such  abundance  first  of 
all,  in  the  meadows  as  yet  hardly  green. — He  was 
strolling  in  the  garden  in  front  of  the  house, 
raised  his  head — and  beheld  Olga  Хл^апоупа. — 
She  was  sitting  with  her  side  to  the  window,  and 
gazing  pensively  at  a  striped  kitten,  which,  purr- 
ing and  blinking,  had  cuddled  down  on  her  lap, 
and  with  great  satisfaction  was  presenting  its 
little  nose  to  the  spring  sunshine,  already  fairly 
brilliant.  Olga  Ivanovna  wore  a  white  morning- 
gown  with  short  sleeves;  her  bare,  faintly-rosy, 
as  yet  not  fully-developed  shoulders  and  arms 
breathed  forth  freshness  and  health;  a  small  cap 
discreetly  confined  her  thick,  soft,  silky  locks ;  her 
face  was  slightly  flushed;  she  had  not  been  long 
awake.  Her  slender,  supple  neck  was  bent  for- 
ward so  charmingly;  her  unconfined  form  re- 

124 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

posed  so  engagingly  and  modestly  that  Vasily 
Ivanovitch  (a  great  connoisseur!)  involuntarily 
halted  and  took  a  look.  It  suddenly  came  into 
his  head  that  Olga  Ivanovna  ought  not  to  be  left 
in  her  pristine  ignorance,  that  in  time  she  might 
turn  out  to  be  a  very  charming  and  very  amiable 
woman.  He  crept  up  to  the  window,  raised  him- 
self on  tiptoe,  and  imprinted  a  silent  kiss  on  Olga 
Ivanovna's  smooth,  white  arm,  a  Httle  below  the 
elbow. — Olga  screamed  and  sprang  to  her  feet, 
the  kitten  elevated  its  tail,  and  leaped  into  the 
garden;  Vasily  Ivanovitch  detained  her  with  his 
hand.  .  .  .  Olga  blushed  all  over,  to  her  very 
ears;  he  began  to  jest  at  her  fright  ....  invited 
her  to  walk  with  him;  but  suddenly  Olga  Iva- 
novna noticed  the  negligence  of  her  attire — 
"  more  swiftly  than  the  swift-footed  doe,"  she 
slipped  into  the  next  room. 

That  same  day,  Vasily  set  off  for  the  Roga- 
tchyofFs'.  He  suddenly  grew  gay,  and  brightened 
up  in  spirit.  Vasily  did  not  fall  in  love  with  Olga, 
no! — one  must  not  trifle  with  the  word  love.  .  .  . 
He  had  found  for  himself  an  occupation,  he  had 
set  himself  a  task,  and  was  rejoicing  with  the  joy 
of  an  active  man.  He  never  even  called  to  mind 
the  fact  that  she  was  his  mother's  adopted  child, 
the  betrothed  of  another  man ;  he  did  not  deceive 
himself  for  a  single  instant ;  he  was  very  well  aware 
that  she  could  not  be  his  wife.  .  .  .  Perhaps  pas- 
sion was  his  excuse — not  a  lofty,  not  a  noble  pas- 

125 


THREE  PORTRAITS 

slon,  't  Is  true,  but,  nevertheless,  a  tolerably  strong 
and  torturing  passion.  Of  course  he  did  not  fall 
in  love  like  a  child;  he  did  not  surrender  himself 
to  unbounded  raptures;  he  knew  well  what  he 
wanted  and  what  he  was  aiming  at. 

Vasily  Ivanovitch  possessed  to  perfection  the 
ability  to  win  the  favour  of  others,  even  of  those 
who  were  prejudiced  or  timid.  Olga  speedily 
ceased  to  shun  him.  Vasily  Ivanovitch  intro- 
duced her  into  a  new  world.  He  imported  a 
clavichord  for  her,  gave  her  music  lessons  (he 
played  very  fairly  himself  on  the  flute),  he  read 
books  to  her,  he  had  long  talks  with  her.  .  .  .  The 
poor  young  steppe-girl's  head  was  turned;  Va- 
sfly  had  completely  subjugated  her.  He  knew 
how  to  talk  to  her  about  that  which,  hitherto,  had 
been  foreign  to  her,  and  to  talk  in  a  language 
which  she  understood.  Olga  gradually  brought 
herself  to  express  all  her  feelings  to  him;  he 
helped  her,  suggested  to  her  the  words  which  she 
could  not  find;  he  did  not  startle  her;  he  now  re- 
pressed, now  encouraged  her  impulses.  .  .  .  Vasily 
occupied  himself  with  her  education  not  out  of  a 
disinterested  desire  to  awaken  and  develop  her 
abilities ;  he  simply  wanted  to  bring  her  somewhat 
closer  to  him,  and  he  knew,  moreover,  that  it  is 
easier  to  attract  an  inexperienced,  shy,  but  vain 
young  girl  by  the  mind  than  by  the  heart.  Even 
if  Olga  had  been  a  remarkable  being,  Vasfly  could 
not  possibly  have  observed  it,  because  he  treated 

126 


THREE  PORTRAITS 

her  like  a  child ;  but  you  already  know,  gentlemen, 
that  there  was  nothing  noteworthy  about  Olga. 

Vasily  strove,  as  much  as  possible,  to  work  on 
her  imagination,  and  often  of  an  evening  she 
would  1еал^е  him  with  such  a  whirl  of  new  images, 
words,  and  thoughts  in  her  head,  that  she  was 
unable  to  get  to  sleep  until  dawn,  and  sighing 
sadly,  she  pressed  her  burning  cheeks  against  her 
cold  pillows ;  or  she  rose  and  went  to  the  window, 
and  gazed  timorously  and  eagerly  into  the  far- 
away gloom.  Vasily  filled  every  moment  of  her 
life;  she  could  not  think  of  any  one  else.  She 
soon  ceased  to  take  any  notice  of  Rogatchyoff . 
Vasily,  being  a  shrewd  and  clever  man,  did  not 
speak  to  Olga  in  his  presence;  but  he  either  con- 
fused him  to  the  verge  of  tears,  or  got  up  some 
boisterous  game,  a  stroll  in  the  evening,  a  rowing- 
party  on  the  river  by  night  with  lanterns  and 
music, — in  a  word,  he  did  not  give  Pavel  Afana- 
sievitch  a  chance  to  recover  his  ground.  But, 
despite  all  Vasily  Ivanovitch's  cleverness,  Ro- 
gatchyoff was  dimly  conscious  that  he,  the  be- 
trothed and  the  future  husband  of  Olga,  had  be- 
come, as  it  were,  a  stranger  to  her  ....  but,  in 
his  infinite  good-heartedness,  he  was  afraid  of 
wounding  her  by  a  reproach,  although  he  really 
loved  her  and  prized  her  affection.  When  he  was 
alone  with  her,  he  did  not  know  what  to  talk 
about,  and  merely  endeavoured  to  serve  her  in 
every  possible  way.    Two  months  passed.    Every 

125: 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

trace  of  independence,  of  will,  disappeared  in 
Olga;  the  weak  and  taciturn  Rogatchyoff  could 
not  serve  her  as  a  prop;  she  did  not  even  try  to 
resist  the  fascination,  and  with  a  sinking  heart 
she  gave  herself  unconditionally  to  Vasily.  .  .  . 

Olga  Iл'anovna,  it  is  probable,  then  learned  the 
joys  of  love;  but  not  for  long.  Although  Vasily 
—  for  the  lack  of  any  other  occupation — not  only 
did  not  discard  her,  but  even  became  attached  to 
her,  and  petted  her,  yet  Olga  lost  herself  to  such  a 
degree  that  she  did  not  find  bliss  even  in  love,  and 
nevertheless  she  was  unable  to  tear  herself  away 
from  Vasily.  She  began  to  be  afraid  of  every- 
thing, she  did  not  dare  to  think;  she  talked  of 
nothing;  she  ceased  to  read;  she  became  a  prey 
to  melancholy.  Sometimes  Vasily  succeeded  in 
drawing  her  after  him,  and  making  her  forget 
everybody  and  everything;  but  on  the  following 
day  he  found  her  pale  and  silent,  with  cold  hands, 
with  a  senseless  smile  on  her  lips.  .  .  . 

A  decidedly  difficult  time  began  for  Vasily; 
but  no  difficulties  could  daunt  him.  He  concen- 
trated himself  completely,  hke  an  expert  gam- 
bler. He  could  not  count  upon  Olga  Ivanovna  in 
the  slightest  degree;  she  was  incessantly  betray- 
ing herself,  paling,  and  blushing  and  weeping 
.  .  .  her  new  role  was  beyond  her  strength. 
Vasily  toiled  for  two ;  in  his  boisterous  and  noisy 
joy  only  an  experienced  observer  could  have  de- 
tected a  feverish  tenseness;  he  played  with  his 

128 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

brothers,  his  sisters,  the  Rogatchyoff  s,  the  neigh- 
bours, both  men  and  women, — as  though  they 
had  been  pawns;  he  was  eternally  on  the  alert, 
he  never  allowed  a  single  glance,  a  single  move- 
ment to  escape  him,  although  he  appeared  to  be 
the  most  care-free  of  mortals;  every  morning  he 
entered  into  battle,  and  every  evening  he  cele- 
brated a  victorJ^  He  was  not  in  the  least  op- 
pressed by  this  strange  activity;  he  slept  four 
hours  a  day,  he  ate  very  little,  and  was  healthy, 
fresh,  and  gay.  In  the  meantime,  the  wedding- 
day  was  approaching;  Vasily  succeeded  in  con- 
vincing Pavel  Af  anasievitch  himself  of  the  neces- 
sity of  a  postponement;  then  he  despatched  him 
to  Moscow  to  make  some  purchases,  and  himself 
entered  into  correspondence  with  his  Petersburg 
friends.  He  exerted  himself  not  so  much  out  of 
compassion  for  Olga  Ivanovna,  as  out  of  a  de- 
sire and  love  for  fuss  and  bustle.  .  .  .  JNIoreover, 
he  had  begun  to  grow  tired  of  Olga  Ivanovna, 
and  more  than  once  already,  after  a  fierce  out- 
burst of  passion,  he  had  looked  at  her  as  he  had 
been  wont  to  look  at  Rogatchyoff.  LutchinofF 
always  remained  a  puzzle  to  every  one;  in  the 
very  coldness  of  his  implacable  spirit  you  felt  con- 
scious of  the  presence  of  a  strange,  almost  south- 
ern flame,  and  in  the  maddest  heat  of  passion, 
cold  emanated  from  that  man. — In  the  presence 
of  others,  he  upheld  Olga  Ivanovna  as  before ;  but 
when  he  was  alone  with  her,  he  played  with  her 

129 


THREE  PORTRAITS 

as  a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse — he  either  terrified 
her  with  sophisms,  or  he  exhibited  heavy  and 
vicious  tedium,  or,  in  conclusion,  he  threw  himself 
at  her  feet  again,  swept  her  away,  as  a  whirlwind 
sweeps  a  chip  ....  and  he  was  not  then  pre- 
tending to  be  in  love  .  .  .  but  really  was  swoon- 
ing with  it  himself.  .  . 

One  day,  quite  late  in  the  evening,  Vasily  was 
sitting  alone  in  his  own  room  and  attentively 
perusing  the  latest  letters  he  had  received  from 
Petersburg— when,  suddenly,  the  door  creaked 
softly  and  Palashka,  Olga  .Ivanovna's  maid,  en- 
tered. 

"  What  dost  thou  want? " — Vasily  asked  her, 
quite  curtly. 

"  My  mistress  begs  that  you  will  come  to 
her." 

"  I  can't  at  present.  Go  away.  .  .  Well,  why 
dost  thou  stand  there?  "—he  went  on,  perceiving 
that  Palashka  did  not  leave  the  room. 

"  My  mistress  ordered  me  to  say  that  there  is 
very  great  need,  sir." 

"  Well,  but  what  's  the  matter?  " 

"  Please  to  see  for  yourself,  sir.  .  .  ." 

Vasily  rose,  with  vexation  tossed  the  letters  into 
a  casket,  and  betook  himself  to  Olga  Ivanovna. 
She  was  sitting  alone  in  a  corner, — pale  and  mo- 
tionless. 

"  AVhat  do  you  want?  " — he  asked  her,  not  very 
politely. 

130 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

Olga  looked  at  him,  and  with  a  shudder,  cov- 
ered her  eyes. 

"  What  ails  you?  what  's  the  matter  with  thee, 
Olga?  " 

He  took  her  hand.  .  .  Olga  Ivanovna's  hand 
was  as  cold  as  ice.  .  .  She  tried  to  speak  .... 
and  her  voice  died  away.  The  poor  woman  had 
no  doubt  left  in  her  mind  as  to  her  condition. 

Vasily  was  somewhat  disconcerted.  Olga  Iva- 
novna's room  was  a  couple  of  paces  from  the  bed- 
room of  Anna  Pavlovna.  Vasily  cautiously 
seated  himself  beside  Olga,  kissed  and  warmed 
her  hands,  and  argued  Avith  her  in  a  whisper.  She 
listened  to  him,  and  shivered  silently,  slightly. 
Palashka  stood  in  the  doorway  and  softly  wiped 
away  her  tears.  In  the  adjoining  room  a  pen- 
dulum was  beating  heavily  and  regularly,  and  the 
breathing  of  a  sleeper  was  audible.  Olga  Iva- 
novna's torpor  dissolved,  at  last,  in  tears  and  dull 
sobs.  Tears  are  the  equivalent  of  a  thunder- 
storm: after  them  a  person  is  always  quieter. 
When  Olga  Ivanovna  had  become  somewhat  com- 
posed, and  only  sobbed  convulsively  from  time  to 
time  like  a  child,  Vasily  knelt  down  before  her, 
and  with  caresses  and  tender  promises  soothed  her 
completely,  gave  her  a  drink  of  water,  put  her 
to  bed,  and  went  away.  All  night  long  he  did 
not  undress  himself,  wrote  two  or  three  letters, 
burned  two  or  three  papers,  got  out  a  golden 
locket  with  the  portrait  of  a  black-browed  and 

131 


THREE  PORTRAITS 

black-eyed  woman,  with  a  bold,  sensual  face, 
gazed  long  at  her  features,  and  paced  his  cham- 
ber in  thought.  On  the  following  morning,  at 
tea,  he  beheld,  with  a  good  deal  of  dissatisfaction, 
poor  Olga's  reddened,  swollen  eyes,  and  pale,  dis- 
traught face.  After  breakfast,  he  proposed  to 
her  that  she  should  take  a  stroll  with  him  in 
the  park.  Olga  followed  Vasily  like  an  obedi- 
ent sheep.  But  when,  two  hours  later,  she  re- 
turned from  the  park,  she  looked  dreadfully ;  she 
told  Anna  Pavlovna  that  she  felt  ill,  and  went  to 
bed.  During  the  walk,  Vasily  had  announced  to 
her,  with  all  due  penitence,  that  he  was  secretly 
married — he  was  just  as  much  a  bachelor  as  I 
am.  Olga  Ivanovna  did  not  fall  down  in  a  swoon 
— people  fall  in  swoons  only  on  the  stage;  but 
she  became  suddenly  petrified,  although  she  not 
only  had  not  been  hoping  to  marry  Vasily  Iva- 
novitch,  but  had  even,  somehow,  been  afraid 
to  think  of  it.  Vasily  began  to  demonstrate  to 
her  the  necessity  of  parting  from  him  and  mar- 
rying RogatchyofF.  Olga  Ivanovna  looked  at 
him  with  dumb  horror.  Vasily  talked  coldly, 
practically,  sensibly;  he  blamed  himself,  he  ex- 
pressed regret, — but  all  his  arguments  wound  up 
with  the  following  words :  "  We  must  act."  Olga 
lost  her  head  completely;  she  was  frightened 
and  ashamed;  dismal,  heavy  despair  took  posses- 
sion of  her;  she  longed  for  death— and  sadly 
awaited  Vasily's  decision. 

132 


THREE  PORTRAITS 

"  We  must  confess  all  to  my  mother,"  he  said 
at  last. 

Olga  turned  deadly  pale;  her  limbs  gave  way 
beneath  her. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  don't  be  frightened," 
— Vasily  kept  repeating: — "rely  on  me;  I  will 
not  forsake  thee  ...  I  will  arrange  everything 
.  .  .  trust  in  me." 

The  poor  woman  gazed  at  him  with  love  . . .  yes, 
with  love,  and  with  profound,  though  hopeless 
devotion. 

"  I  will  arrange  everything,  everything," — 
said  Vasily  to  her  at  parting  .  .  .  and  for  the 
last  time  kissed  her  ice-cold  hands. 

Olga  Ivanovna  had  just  risen  from  her  bed  on 
the  following  morning,  when  her  door  opened 
.  .  .  and  Anna  Pavlovna  made  her  appearance 
on  the  threshold.  She  was  supported  by  Vasily. 
Silently  she  made  her  way  to  an  arm-chair,  and 
silently  seated  herself.  Vasily  stood  beside  her. 
He  seemed  composed ;  his  brows  were  contracted, 
and  his  lips  were  slightly  parted.  Anna  Pav- 
lovna, pale,  indignant,  wrathful,  tried  to  speak, 
but  her  voice  failed  her.  Olga  Ivanovna  with 
terror,  took  in,  in  a  single  glance,  her  benefac- 
tress and  her  lover;  she  felt  a  frightful  sinking 
at  the  heart  .  .  .  with  a  shriek  she  fell  down  on 
her  knees  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands.  .  .  . 

"So  it  is  true  ...  it  is  true?"  whispered 
133 


THREE  PORTRAITS 

Anna  Pavlovna,  and  bent  toward  her.  .  .  .  "An- 
swer!"—she  went  on  harshly,  seizing  Olga  by 
the  arm. 

"  Mamma!  "  rang  out  Vasily's  brazen  voice, — 
"  you  promised  me  not  to  insult  her." 

"  I  won't  .  .  .  come,  confess  ....  confess 
...  is  it  true?    Is  it  true?  " 

"  Mamma  .  .  .  remember !  .  .  ."  said  Vasily, 
slowly. 

That  one  word  shook  Anna  Pavlovna  violently. 
She  leaned  against  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  fell 
to  sobbing. 

Olga  Ivanovna  softly  raised  her  head  and  at- 
tempted to  fling  herself  at  the  old  woman's  feet, 
but  Vasily  restrained  her,  raised  her  up,  and 
seated  her  in  another  arm-chair.  Anna  Pavlovna 
continued  to  weep  and  whisper  incoherent 
words.  .  .  . 

"  Listen,  mamma," — began  Vasily.  "  Don't 
be  so  overwhelmed !  This  calamity  can  still  be  al- 
leviated. ...  If  RogatchyofF  .  .  .  ." 

Olga  Ivanovna  shuddered  and  straightened 
herself  up. 

"  If  Rogatchyo if, "—pursued  Vasily,  with  a 
significant  glance  at  Olga  Ivanovna, — "  has  im- 
agined that  he  can  with  impunity  disgrace  an 
honourable  family  .  .  .  ." 

Olga  Ivanovna  was  terrified. 

"  In  my  house," — moaned  Anna  Pavlovna. 

"  Calm  j^urself,  mamma.  He  has  taken  ad- 
134 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

vantage  of  her  inexperience,  of  her  youth,  he 
....  did  you  wish  to  say  something? " — he 
added,  perceiving  that  Olga  was  trying  to  get  at 
him. 

Olga  Ivanovna  fell  back  in  her  chair. 

"  I  shall  go  at  once  to  RogatchyofF.  I  shall 
force  him  to  wed  her  this  very  day.  Be  assured, 
I  shall  not  permit  him  to  jeer  at  us.  .  .  ." 

"  But  .  .  .  Vasily  Ivanovitch  .  .  .  you  .  .  ." 
whispered  Olga. 

He  stared  long  and  coldly  at  her.  She  relapsed 
into  silence. 

"  Mamma,  give  me  your  word  not  to  disturb 
her  until  my  arrival.  See — she  is  barely  alive. 
Yes,  and  you  require  rest  yourself.  Trust  to 
me:  I  answer  for  everything;  in  any  case,  await 
my  return.  I  repeat  to  you — do  not  kill  her,  nor 
yourself — rely  upon  me." 

He  walked  to  the  door,  and  paused. 

"  Mamma," — he  said:  "  come  with  me.  Leave 
her  alone,  I  beg  of  you." 

Anna  Pavlovna  rose,  went  to  the  holy  picture, 
made  a  reverence  to  the  floor,  and  softly  followed 
her  son.  Olga  Ivanovna  followed  her  silently 
and  immovably  with  her  eyes.  Vasily  hastily 
came  back,  seized  her  hand,  whispered  in  her  ear : 
"  Trust  to  me,  and  do  not  betray  us," — and  im- 
mediately withdrew.  .  .  . 

"Boursier!"  he  shouted,  as  he  ran  swiftly 
down  the  stairs. — "  Boursier!  " 

135 


THREE  PORTRAITS 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  he  was  seated  in  his 
calash  with  his  servant. 

Old  RogatchyoiF  was  not  at  home  that  day. 
He  had  gone  to  the  county  town,  to  buy  seer- 
sucker for  kaftans  to  clothe  his  retainers.  Pavel 
Afanasievitch  was  sitting  in  his  study,  and  in- 
specting a  collection  of  faded  butterflies.  Ele- 
vating his  eyebrows,  and  thrusting  forth  his  lips, 
he  was  cautiously  turning  about  with  a  pin  the 
large  wings  of  the  "  nocturnal  sphinx,"  when 
suddenly,  he  felt  a  small  but  heavy  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  He  glanced  round — before  him  stood 
Vasfly. 

"  Good  morning,  Vasfly  Ivanovitch," — said  he, 
not  without  some  surprise. 

Vasfly  looked  at  him  and  sat  down  in  front  of 
him  on  a  chair. 

Pavel  Afanasievitch  was  about  to  smile  .  .  . 
but  glanced  at  Vasfly,  relaxed,  opened  his  mouth, 
and  clasped  his  hands. 

"  Come,  tell  me,  Pavel  Afanasievitch," — began 
Vasfly,  suddenly: — "do  you  intend  to  have  the 
wedding  soon?  " 

"  I?  .  .  .  soon  ....  of  course.  ...  I,  so  far  as 
I  am  concerned  ....  however,  that  is  as  you 
and  your  sister  choose.  ...  I,  for  my  part,  am 
ready  to-morrow,  if  you  like." 

"  Very  good,  very  good.  You  are  a  very  im- 
patient man,  Pavel  Afanasievitch." 

"  How  so,  sir?  " 

136 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

"  Listen," — added  Vasily  Ivanovitch,  rising 
to  his  feet: — "I  know  everything;  you  under- 
stand me,  and  I  order  you  to  marry  Olga  without 
delay,  to-morrow." 

"  But  excuse  me,  excuse  me,"— returned  Ro- 
gatchyofF,  without  rising  from  his  seat; — "you 
order  me?  I  myself  have  sought  the  hand  of 
Olga  Ivanovna,  and  there  is  no  need  to  order  me. 
I  must  confess,  Vasily  Ivanovitch,  somehow,  I 
don't  understand  you.  ..." 

"  Thou  dost  not  understand?  " 

"  No,  really,  I  don't  understand,  sir." 

"  Wilt  thou  give  me  thy  word  to  marry  her  to- 
morrow? " 

"  Why,  good  gracious,  Vasily  Ivanovitch  .... 
have  n't  you  yourself  repeatedly  postponed  our 
marriage?  If  it  had  not  been  for  you,  it  would 
have  taken  place  long  ago.  And  even  now  I 
have  no  idea  of  refusing.  But  what  is  the  mean- 
ing of  your  threats,  of  your  urgent  demands?  " 

Pavel  Afanasievitch  wiped  the  perspiration 
from  his  face. 

"  Wilt  thou  give  me  thy  word?  Speak!  Yes, 
or  no?  "—repeated  Vasily  with  pauses  between 
his  words. 

"  Certainly  ...  I  give  it,  sir,  but  .  .  .  ." 

"  Good.  Remember.  .  .  .  And  she  has  con- 
fessed everything." 

"  Who  has  confessed?  " 

"  Olga  Ivanovna." 

137 


THREE  PORTRAITS 

"  But  what  has  she  confessed?  " 

"  Why  do  you  dissimulate  with  me,  Pavel 
Afanasievitch?  Surely,  I  'm  not  a  stranger  to 
you." 

"  How  am  I  dissimulating?  I  don't  understand 
you,  I  don't  understand  you,  positively  I  don't 
understand  you.  What  could  Olga  Ivanovna 
confess?  " 

"  What?  You  bore  me!  You  know  well  what." 

"  May  God  slay  me  if  .  .  .  ." 

"  No,  I  will  slay  thee — if  thou  dost  not  marry 
her  ....  dost  understand?  " 

"What!  .  .  .  ."  Pavel  Afanasievitch  leaped 
to  his  feet,  and  stood  before  Vasily. — "  Olga  Iva- 
novna ....  you  say  .  .  .  ." 

"  Thou  'rt  clever,  my  good  fellow,  very  clever, 
I  must  admit."  Vasily,  with  a  smile,  tapped  him 
on  the  shoulder. — "  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  thou 
art  so  mild  of  aspect  .  .  .  ." 

"  My  God,  О  God!  .  .  .  You  will  drive  me 
mad.  .  .  What  do  you  mean  to  say?  Explain 
yourself,  for  God's  sake !  " 

Vasily  bent  over  him  and  whispered  something 
in  his  ear. 

Rogatchyoff  cried  out:—"  What?  ....  how?  " 

Vasily  stamped  his  foot. 

"  Olga  Ivanovna?    Olga?  .  .  ." 

"  Yes  ....  your  betrothed  bride.  ..." 

"  My  betrothed  bride  ....  Vasily  Ivano- 
vitch  ....  she  ....  she  ....  But  I  will  have  no- 

138 


THREE  PORTRAITS 

thing  to  do  with  her!  " — shouted  Pavel  Afanasie- 
vitch.  "  I  '11  have  none  of  her!  What  do  you 
take  me  for?  To  deceive  me — to  deceive  me! 
.  .  .  Olga  Ivanovna,  is  n't  it  sinful  of  you,  are  n't 
you  ashamed?  .  .  .  ."  (Tears  gushed  from  his 
eyes.)  — "  I  thank  you,  Vasily  Ivanovitch,  I  thank 
you.  .  .  .  And  now  I  '11  have  nothing  to  do  with 
her!  I  won't!  I  won't!  don't  speak  of  such  a 
thing!  ....  Akh,  good  heavens!— that  I  should 
have  lived  to  see  this  day!  But  it  is  well,  it  is 
well!" 

"  Stop  behaving  like  a  baby,"— remarked 
Vasfly  Ivanovitch,  coldly.— "  Remember,  you 
have  given  me  your  word  that  the  wedding  shall 
take  place  to-morrow." 

."  No,  that  shall  not  be!  Enough,  Vasily  Iva- 
novitch, I  say  to  you  once  more — for  whom  do 
you  take  me?  You  do  me  much  honour;  many 
thanks,  sir.    Excuse  me,  sir." 

"  As  you  like!  "—retorted  Vasily.—"  Get  your 
sword." 

"  Why?  " 

"  This  is  why." 

Vasily  drew  out  his  slender,  flexible  French 
sword,  and  bent  it  slightly  against  the  floor. 

"  You  mean  ....  to  fight  ....  with  me?  .  .  ." 

"  Precisely  so." 

"  But,  Vasily  Ivanovitch,  pray,  enter  into 
my  position!  How  can  I  — judge  for  yourself 
— after    what    you    have    told    me?  ...  I    am 

139 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

an  honest  man,  Vasily  Ivanovitch ;  I  am  a  noble- 
man." 

"  You  are  a  nobleman,  you  are  an  honest  man, 
— then  be  so  good  as  to  fight  with  me." 

"Vasily  Ivanovitch!" 

"  You  appear  to  be  a  coward,  Mr.  Roga- 
tchyoff  ? " 

"  I  am  not  in  the  least  a  coward,  Vasily  Ivano- 
vitch. You  have  thought  to  frighten  me,  Vasily 
Ivanovitch.  '  Come,  now,'  you  said  to  yourself, 
'  I  '11  scare  him,  and  he  '11  turn  cowardly ;  he  will 
instantly  consent  to  anything.'  ....  No,  Vasily 
Ivanovitch,  I  'm  the  same  sort  of  nobleman  as 
yourself,  although  I  Ьал^е  not  received  my  edu- 
cation in  the  capital,  it  is  true;  and  you  will  not 
succeed  in  terrifying  me,  excuse  me." 

"Very  good," — retorted  Vasily: — "where  is 
your  sword  i  " 

"  Eroshka!  "—shouted  Pavel  Afanasievitch. 

A  man  entered. 

"  Get  my  sword — yonder — thou  knowest  where 
it  is — in  the  garret  ....  and  be  quick  about 
it.  .  .  ." 

Eroshka  withdrew.  Pavel  Afanasievitch  sud- 
denly turned  extremely  pale,  hastily  took  off  his 
dressing-gown,  put  on  a  kaftan  of  a  reddish  hue 
with  large  strass  buttons  ....  wound  a  neck- 
cloth round  his  neck.  .  .  .  Vasily  watched  him, 
and  examined  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand. 

"  So  hoлv  is  it  to  be?  Are  we  to  fight,  Pavel 
Afanasievitch? " 

140 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

"  If  we  must  fight,  we  must," — returned  Ro- 
gatchyoff,  hastily  buttoning  his  waistcoat. 

"Hey,  Pavel  Afanasievitch,  heed  my  advice: 
marry  ....  why  shouldst  thou  not?  .  .  .  But 
I,  believe  me  .  .  .  ." 

"  No,  Vasily  Ivanovitch,"— RogatchyoiF  in- 
terrupted him.  "  You  will  either  kill  me  or  maim 
me,  I  know;  but  I  have  no  intention  of  losing 
my  honour;  if  I  must  die,  I  will." 

Eroshka  entered  and  hurriedly  handed  Ro- 
gatchyoff  a  wretched  little  old  sлvord,  in  a 
cracked,  leather  scabbard.  At  that  time  all 
nobles  wore  swords  when  they  had  powdered  hair ; 
but  the  nobles  of  the  steppes  only  powdered 
their  hair  a  couple  of  times  a  year.  Eroshka 
retreated  to  the  door,  and  fell  to  weeping. 
Pavel  Afanasievitch  thrust  him  out  of  the 
room. 

"But,  Vasily  Ivanovitch,"— he  remarked,  with 
some  agitation, — "  I  cannot  fight  with  you  in- 
stantly: permit  me  to  defer  our  duel  until  to- 
morrow; my  father  is  not  at  home;  and  it  would 
not  be  a  bad  thing  to  put  my  affairs  in  order, 
in  case  of  a  catastrophe." 

"  I  see  that  you  are  beginning  to  quail  again, 
my  dear  sir." 

"No,  no,  Vasfly  Ivanovitch;  but  judge  for 
yourself.  ..." 

"Listen!"  .  .  .  shouted  Lutchinoff: — "you 
are  driving  me  out  of  patience.  .  .  .  Either  give 
me  your  word  to  marry  immediately,  or  fight 

141 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

....  or  I  will  trounce  you  with  a  cudgel,  like 
a  coward,  do  you  understand?  " 

"  Let  us  go  into  the  park," — replied  Roga- 
tchyofF  between  his  teeth. 

But  suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  the  old 
nurse  Efimovna,  all  dishevelled,  forced  her  way 
into  the  room,  fell  on  her  knees  before  Roga- 
tchyoff  and  clasped  his  feet.  .  .  . 

"  My  dear  little  father!  "—she  wailed:—"  my 
child  ....  what  is  this  thou  art  projecting? 
Do  not  ruin  us  miserable  ones,  dear  little  fa- 
ther! For  he  will  kill  thee,  my  dear  little  dove! 
But  only  give  us  the  command,  give  us  the 
command,  and  we  '11  kill  that  insolent  fellow 
with  our  caps.  .  .  .  Pavel  Af  anasievitch,  my  dar- 
ling child,  have  the  fear  of  God  before  thine 
eyes! 

A  multitude  of  pale  and  agitated  faces  showed 
themselves  in  the  doorway  ....  the  red  beard 
of  the  Elder  even  made  its  appearance.  .  .  . 

"Let  me  go,  Efimovna,  let  me  go!" — mut- 
tered Rogatchyoff . 

"  I  will  not  let  thee  go,  my  own  one,  I  will  not 
let  thee  go.  What  art  thou  doing,  dear  little 
father,  what  art  thou  doing?  And  what  will 
Afanasy  Lukitch  say?  Why,  he  will  drive  all 
of  us  out  of  the  white  world.  .  .  .  And  why  do 
ye  stand  there?  Seize  the  unbidden  guest  by  the 
arms,  and  lead  him  forth  from  the  house,  that 
no  trace  of  him  may  remain.  ..." 

142 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

"  Rogatchyoif!  "—shouted  Vasfly  Ivanovitch, 
menacingly. 

"  Thou  hast  gone  crazy,  Efimovna,  thou  art 
disgracing  me,"  ....  said  Pavel  Afanasievitch. 
— "  Go  away,  go,  Avith  God's  blessing,  and  be- 
gone, all  of  you,  do  you  hear?  Do  you  hear? . .  ." 

Vasfly  Ivanovitch  walked  swiftly  to  the  open 
window,  drew  out  a  small  silver  whistle,  and  whis- 
tled hghtly.  .  .  .  Boursier  answered  close  at 
hand.  Lutchinoff  immediately  turned  to  Pavel 
Afanasievitch. 

''  How  is  this  comedy  to  end?  " 

"  Vasily  Ivanovitch,  I  will  come  to  you  to- 
morrow— what  am  I  to  do  \vith  this  crazy 
woman?  .  .  .  ." 

"  Eh!  I  see  that  it  is  useless  to  talk  long  with 
you," — said  Vasily,  and  swiftly  raised  his 
cane.  .  .  . 

Pavel  Afanasievitch  dashed  forward,  thrust 
aside  Efimovna,  seized  his  sword,  and  rushed 
through  the  other  door  into  the  park. 

Vasily  darted  after  him.  They  both  ran  to  a 
wooden  arbour  artfully  painted  in  the  Chinese 
manner,  locked  themselves  in,  and  bared  their 
swords.  Rogatchj^ff  had  once  upon  a  time  taken 
lessons  in  fencing;  but  he  barely  knew  how  to 
parry  properly.  The  blades  crossed.  Vasily  was, 
evidently,  playing  with  Rogatchyoff 's  sword.  Pa- 
vel Afanasievitch  sighed,  turned  pale,  and  gazed 
with  consternation  into  Lutchinoff's  face.    In  the 

143 


THREE  PORTRAITS 

meanwhile,  cries  resounded  in  the  park ;  a  throng 
of  people  rushed  to  the  arbour.  Suddenly  Ro- 
gatchyofF  heard  a  heart-rending,  senile  roar  .... 
he  recognised  his  father's  voice.  Afanasy  Lu- 
kitch,  hatless,  and  with  dishevelled  locks,  was 
running  in  front  of  all,  waving  his  arms  de- 
spairingly  

With  a  powerful  and  unexpected  turn  of  his 
blade,  Vasily  knocked  the  sword  from  Pavel 
Afanasievitch's  hand. 

"  Marry,  brother," — he  said  to  him. — "  Stop 
being  a  fool!  " 

"  I  will  not  marry!  " — whispered  RogatchyoiF, 
closed  his  eyes,  and  trembled  all  over. 

Afanasy  Lukitch  began  to  pound  on  the  door 
of  the  arbour. 

"  Thou  wilt  not?  "—shouted  Vasily. 

RogatchyoiF  shook  his  head  in  the  negative. 

"  Well,  then,  the  devil  take  thee!  " 

Poor  Pavel  Afanasievitch  fell  dead:  Lutchi- 
nofF's  sword  had  pierced  his  heart.  .  .  .  The  door 
burst  open,  old  RogatchyofF  rushed  into  the  ar- 
bour, but  Vasily  had  already  managed  to  spring 
out  of  the  window.  .  . 

Two  hours  later,  he  entered  Olga  Ivanovna's 
room.  .  .  She  darted  to  meet  him  in  affright. 
.  .  .  He  silently  bowed  to  her,  drew  out  his  sword, 
and  pierced  Pavel  Afanasievitch's  portrait  at  the 
place  of  the  heart.  Olga  shrieked,  and  fell 
senseless  on  the  floor.  .  .  .  Vasily  directed  his 

144 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

steps  to  Anna  Pavlovna.     He  found  her  in  the 
room  of  the  holy  pictures. 

"  Mamma," — he  said, — "  we  are  avenged." 
The  poor  old  woman  shuddered  and  went  on 
praying. 

A  week  later,  Vasily  took  his  departure  for 
Petersburg, — and  two  years  afterward  he  re- 
turned to  the  country,  crippled  with  paralysis, 
and  speechless.  He  no  longer  found  either  Anna 
Pavlovna  or  Olga  Ivanovna  alive,  and  soon  died 
himself  in  the  arms  of  Yuditch,  who  fed  him  like 
a  baby,  and  was  the  only  person  who  could  un- 
derstand his  incoherent  babble. 


145 


THREE  MEETINGS 

(1851) 


THREE  MEETINGS 


Passa  que'  colli  e  vieni  allegramente; 
Non  ti  curar  di  tanta  compania — 
Vieni  pensando  a  me  segretamente — 
Ch'io  t'  accompagna  per  tutta  la  via.^ 

DURING  the  whole  course  of  the  summer, 
I  had  gone  a-hunting  nowhere  so  frequently 
as  to  the  large  village  of  Glinnoe,  situated  twenty 
versts  from  my  hamlet.  In  the  environs  of  this 
village  there  are,  in  all  probability,  the  very  best 
haunts  of  game  in  all  our  county.  After  having 
tramped  through  all  the  adjacent  bush-plots  and 
fields,  I  invariably,  toward  the  end  of  the  day, 
turned  aside  into  the  neighbouring  marsh,  al- 
most the  only  one  in  the  countryside,  and  thence 
returned  to  my  cordial  host,  the  Elder  of  Glin- 
noe, with  whom  I  always  stopped.  It  is  not  more 
than  two  versts  from  the  marsh  to  Ghnnoe;  the 
entire  road  runs  through  a  valley,  and  only 
midway  of  the  distance  is  one  compelled  to  cross 
a  small  hillock.  On  the  crest  of  this  hillock  Mes 
a  homestead,  consisting  of  one  uninhabited  little 

^Pass  through  these  hills  and  come  cheerily  to  me:  care  thou  not 
for  too  great  a  company.  Come  thou,  and  think  secretly  of  me,  that 
I  may  be  thy  comrade  all  the  way. 

149 


THREE   MEETINGS 

manor-house  and  a  garden.  It  almost  always 
hapi)ened  that  I  passed  it  at  the  very  acme  of  the 
sunset  glow,  and  I  remember,  that  on  every  such 
occasion,  this  house,  with  its  hermetically-sealed 
windows,  appeared  to  me  like  a  blind  old  man 
who  had  come  forth  to  warm  himself  in  the 
sunlight.  He  is  sitting,  dear  man,  close  to  the 
highway;  the  splendour  of  the  sunlight  has  long 
since  been  superseded  for  him  by  eternal  gloom; 
but  he  feels  it,  at  least,  on  his  upturned  and  out- 
stretched face,  on  his  flushed  cheeks.  It  seemed 
as  though  no  one  had  lived  in  the  house  itself  for 
a  long  time;  but  in  a  tiny  detached  wing,  in 
the  courtyard,  lodged  a  decrepit  man  who  had 
received  his  freedom,  tall,  stooping,  and  grey- 
haired,  with  expressive  and  impassive  features. 
He  was  always  sitting  on  a  bench  in  front  of  the 
wing's  solitary  little  window,  gazing  with  sad 
pensiveness  into  the  distance,  and  when  he  caught 
sight  of  me,  he  rose  a  little  way  and  saluted,  with 
that  deliberate  gravity  which  distinguishes  old 
house-serfs  who  have  belonged  not  to  the  gen- 
eration of  our  fathers,  but  to  our  grandfathers. 
I  sometimes  entered  into  conversation  with  him, 
but  he  was  not  loquacious;  all  I  learned  from 
him  was  that  the  farm  on  which  he  dwelt  be- 
longed to  the  granddaughter  of  his  old  master, 
a  widow,  who  had  a  younger  sister;  that  both  of 
them  lived  in  towns,  and  beyond  the  sea,  and 
never  showed  themselves  at  home;  that  he  was 

150 


THREE   MEETINGS 

anxious  to  finish  his  hfe  as  speedily  as  possible, 
because  "  you  eat  and  eat  bread  so  that  you  get 
melancholy:  so  long  do  you  eat."  This  old  man's 
name  was  Lukyanitch. 

One  day,  for  some  reason  or  other,  I  tarried 
long  in  the  fields;  a  very  fair  amount  of  game 
had  presented  itself,  and  the  day  had  turned  out 
fine  for  hunting — from  early  morning  it  had 
been  still  and  grey,  as  though  thoroughly  per- 
meated with  evening.  I  wandered  far  a-field,  and 
it  was  not  only  already  completely  dark,  but  the 
moon  had  risen  and  night  had  long  been  standing 
in  the  sky,  as  the  expression  runs,  when  I  reached 
the  familiar  farm.  I  had  to  pass  along  the  gar- 
den. .  .  All  around  lay  such  tranquillity.  .  . 

I  crossed  the  broad  road,  cautiously  made  my 
way  through  the  dusty  nettles,  and  leaned  against 
the  low,  wattled  hedge.^  Motionless  before  me 
lay  the  small  garden  all  illuminated  and,  as  it 
were,  soothed  to  stillness  by  the  silvery  rays  of 
the  moon, — all  fragrant  and  humid;  laid  out  in 
ancient  fashion,  it  consisted  of  a  single  oblong 
grass-plot.  Straight  paths  came  together  ex- 
actly in  the  centre,  in  a  circular  flower-bed, 
thickly  overgrown  with  asters;  tall  lindens  sur- 
rounded it  in  an  even  border.  In  one  spot  only 
was  this  border,  a  couple  of  fathoms  in  length, 
broken,  and  through  the  gap  a  part  of  the  low- 

^  In  central  and  southern  Russia  where  timber  is  scarce,  fences, 
and  even  the  walls  of  barns  and  store-houses,  are  made  of  interlaced 
boughs. — Translator. 

151 


THREE   MEETINGS 

roofed  house  was  visible,  with  two  windows 
lighted,  to  my  amazement.  Young  apple-trees 
reared  themselves  here  and  there  over  the  mea- 
dow ;  athwart  their  slender  branches  the  nocturnal 
sky  gleamed  softly  blue,  and  the  dreamy  light 
of  the  moon  streamed  down;  in  front  of  each 
apple-tree,  on  the  whitening  grass,  lay  its  faint, 
mottled  shadow.  On  one  side  of  the  garden  the 
lindens  were  confusedly  green,  inundated  with 
motionless,  palely-brilliant  light;  on  the  other, 
they  stood  all  black  and  opaque;  a  strange,  re- 
pressed rustling  arose  at  times  in  their  dense 
fohage;  they  seemed  to  be  calling  to  the  paths 
which  vanished  under  them,  as  though  luring 
them  beneath  their  dim  canopy.  The  whole  sky 
was  studded  with  stars;  mysteriously  did  their 
soft  blue  scintillations  stream  down  from  on  high ; 
they  seemed  to  be  gazing  with  quiet  intentness 
at  the  distant  earth.  Small,  thin  clouds  now  and 
then  sailed  across  the  moon,  momentarily  con- 
verting its  tranquil  gleam  into  an  obscure  but 
luminous  mist.  .  .  .  Everything  was  dreaming. 
The  air,  all  warm,  all  perfumed,  did  not  even  vi- 
brate; it  only  shivered  now  and  then,  as  water 
shivers  when  disturbed  by  a  falling  branch.  .  .  . 
One  was  conscious  of  a  certain  thirst,  a  certain 
swooning  in  it.  .  .  I  bent  ол^ег  the  fence:  a  wild 
scarlet  poppy  reared  its  erect  little  stalk  before 
me  from  the  matted  grass;  a  large,  round  drop 
of  night  dew  glittered  with  a  dark  gleam  in  the 

152 


THREE   MEETINGS 

heart  of  the  open  blossom.  Everything  was 
dreaming;  everything  was  taking  its  ease  lux- 
uriously round  about;  everything  seemed  to  be 
gazing  upward,  stretching  itself  out,  motionless, 
expectant.  .  .  What  was  it  that  that  warm,  not 
yet  sleeping  night,  was  waiting  for? 

It  was  waiting  for  a  sound ;  that  sensitive  still- 
ness was  waiting  for  a  living  voice — but  every- 
thing maintained  silence.  The  nightingales  had 
long  since  ceased  their  song  .  .  .  and  the  sud- 
den booming  of  a  beetle  as  it  flew  past,  the  light 
smacking  of  a  tiny  fish  in  the  fish-pond  behind 
the  lindens  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  the  sleepy 
whistle  of  a  startled  bird,  a  distant  cry  in  the 
fields, — so  far  away  that  the  ear  could  not  dis- 
tinguish whether  it  was  a  man,  or  a  wild  animal, 
or  a  bird  which  had  uttered  it, — a  short,  brisk 
trampling  of  hoofs  on  the  road:  all  these  faint 
sounds,  these  rustlings,  only  rendered  the  still- 
ness more  profound.  .  .  My  heart  yearned  within 
me,  with  an  indefinite  feeling,  akin  not  precisely 
to  expectation,  nor  yet  to  a  memory  of  happiness. 
I  dared  not  stir;  I  was  standing  motionless  be- 
fore this  motionless  garden  steeped  in  moon- 
light and  in  dew,  and,  without  myself  knowing 
why,  was  staring  importunately  at  those  two 
windows,  which  shone  dimly  red  in  the  soft 
half -darkness,  when  suddenly  a  chord  rang 
out  of  the  house,— rang  out  and  rolled  forth  in  a 
flood.  .  .  .  The   irritatingly-resonant   air   thun- 

153 


THREE   MEETINGS 

dered  back  an  echo.  ...  I  gave  an  involuntary 
start. 

The  chord  was  followed  by  the  sound  of  a 
woman's  voice.  .  .  I  began  to  listen  eagerly — 
and  .  .  .  can  I  express  my  amazement?  .  .  . 
two  years  previously,  in  Italy,  at  Sorrento,  I  had 
heard  that  selfsame  song,  that  selfsame  voice. 
.  .  .  Yes,  yes.  .  . 

"  Vieni  pensando  a  me  segretamente  .  .   ." 

It  was  they ;  I  had  recognised  them ;  those  were 
the  sounds.  .  .  This  is  the  way  it  had  happened. 
I  was  returning  home  from  a  long  stroll  on  the 
seashore.  I  was  walking  swiftly  along  the  street ; 
night  had  long  since  descended,— a  magnificent 
night,  southern,  not  calm  and  sadly-pensive  as 
with  us,  no !  but  all  radiant,  sumptuous,  and  very 
beautiful,  like  a  happy  woman  in  her  bloom;  the 
moon  shone  with  incredible  brilliancy;  great,  ra- 
diant stars  fairly  throbbed  in  the  dark-blue  sky; 
the  black  shadows  were  sharply  defined  against 
the  ground  illuminated  to  yellowness.  On  both 
sides  of  the  street  stretched  the  stone  walls  of 
gardens;  orange-trees  reared  above  them  their 
crooked  branches;  the  golden  globes  of  heavy 
fruit,  hidden  amidst  the  interlacing  leaves,  were 
now  barely  visible,  now  glowed  brightly,  as  they 
ostentatiously  displayed  themselves  in  the  moon- 
light. On  many  trees  the  blossoms  shone  tenderly 
white ;  the  air  was  all  impregnated  with  fragrance 

154 


THREE   MEETINGS 

languishingly  powerful,  penetrating,  and  almost 
heavy,  although  inexpressibly  sweet. 

I  walked  on,  and,  I  must  confess,— having  al- 
ready become  accustomed  to  all  these  wonders, — 
I  was  thinking  only  of  how  I  might  most  speedily 
reach  my  inn,  when  suddenly,  from  a  small  pa- 
vilion, built  upon  the  very  wall  of  a  garden  along 
which  I  was  passing,  a  woman's  voice  rang  out. 
It  was  singing  some  song  with  which  I  was  un- 
famihar,  and  in  its  sounds  there  was  something 
so  winning,  it  seemed  so  permeated  with  the  pas- 
sion and  joyous  expectation  expressed  by  the 
words  of  the  song,  that  I  instantly  and  involun- 
tarily halted,  and  raised  my  head.  There  were 
two  windows  in  the  pavilion;  but  in  both  the 
Venetian  blinds  were  lowered,  and  through  their 
narrow  chinks  a  dull  light  barely  made  its  way. 

After  having  repeated  "  vieni,  vieni! "  twice, 
the  voice  became  silent ;  the  faint  sound  of  strings 
was  audible,  as  though  of  a  guitar  which  had 
fallen  on  the  rug;  a  gown  rustled,  the  floor 
creaked  softly.  The  streaks  of  hght  in  one  win- 
dow disappeared.  .  .  Some  one  had  approached 
from  within  and  leaned  against  it.  I  advanced 
a  couple  of  paces.  Suddenly  the  blind  clattered 
and  flew  open;  a  graceful  woman,  all  in  white, 
swiftly  thrust  her  lovely  head  from  the  window, 
and  stretching  out  her  arms  toward  me,  said: 
"  Sei  tu?  " 

I  was  disconcerted,  I  did  not  know  what  to  say ; 
155 


THREE   MEETINGS 

but  at  that  same  moment  the  Unknown  threw  her- 
self backward  with  a  faint  shriek,  the  blind 
slammed  to,  and  the  light  in  the  pavilion  grew 
still  more  dim,  as  though  it  had  been  carried  out 
into  another  room.  I  remained  motionless,  and 
for  a  long  time  could  not  recover  myself.  The 
face  of  the  woman  who  had  so  suddenly  pre- 
sented itself  before  me  was  strikingly  beautiful. 
It  had  flashed  too  rapidly  before  my  eyes  to  per- 
mit of  my  immediately  recalling  each  individual 
feature;  but  the  general  impression  was  inde- 
scribably powerful  and  profound.  ...  I  felt 
then  and  there  that  I  should  never  forget  that 
countenance.  The  moon  fell  straight  on  the  wall 
of  the  pavilion,  on  the  window  whence  she  had 
shown  herself  to  me,  and,  great  heavens!  how 
magnificently  had  her  great,  dark  eyes  shone  in 
its  radiance!  In  what  a  heavy  flood  had  her  half- 
loosened  black  hair  fallen  upon  her  uplifted, 
rounded  shoulders!  How  much  bashful  tender- 
ness there  had  been  in  the  soft  inclination  of  her 
form,  how  much  afl*ection  in  her  voice,  when  she 
had  called  to  me — in  that  hurried,  but  resonant 
whisper ! 

After  standing  for  quite  a  long  time  on  one 
spot,  I  at  last  stepped  a  little  aside,  into  the 
shadow  of  the  opposite  wall,  and  began  to  stare 
thence  at  the  pavilion  with  a  sort  of  stupid  sur- 
prise and  anticipation.  I  hstened  ....  listened 
with  strained  attention.  .  .  It  seemed  to  me  now 

156 


THREE   MEETINGS 

that  I  heard  some  one's  quiet  breathing  behind 
the  darkened  window,  now  a  rustle  and  quiet 
laughter.  At  last,  steps  resounded  in  the  dis- 
tance .  .  .  they  came  nearer;  a  man  of  almost 
identical  stature  with  myself  made  his  appear- 
ance at  the  end  of  the  street,  briskly  strode  up 
to  a  gate  directly  beneath  the  pavilion,  which  I 
had  not  previously  noticed,  knocked  twice  with 
its  iron  ring,  without  looking  about  him,  waited 
a  little,  knocked  again,  and  began  to  sing  in  an 
undertone :  "  Ecco  ridentef  .  .  .  The  gate 
opened  ...  he  slipped  noiselessly  through  it. 
I  started,  shook  my  head,  threw  my  hands  apart, 
and  pulling  my  hat  morosely  down  on  my  brows, 
went  off  home  in  displeasure.  On  the  following 
day  I  vainly  paced  up  and  down  that  street  for 
two  hours  in  the  very  hottest  part  of  the  day,  past 
the  pavilion,  and  that  same  evening  went  away 
from  Sorrento  without  even  having  visited 
Tasso's  house. 

The  reader  can  now  picture  to  himself  the 
amazement  which  suddenly  took  possession  of 
me,  when  I  heard  that  same  voice,  that  same  song, 
in  the  steppes,  in  one  of  the  most  remote  parts  of 
Russia.  .  .  .  Now,  as  then,  it  was  night;  now, 
as  then,  the  voice  suddenly  rang  out  from  a 
lighted,  unfamiliar  room;  now,  as  then,  I  was 
alone.  My  heart  began  to  beat  violently  within 
me.  "  Is  not  this  a  dream?  "  I  thought.  Andlo! 
again  the  final  "  vieni! "  rang  out.  .  .  .  Can  it 

157 


THREE   MEETINGS 

be  that  the  window  will  open?  Can  it  be  that 
the  woman  will  show  herself  in  it?— The  window 
opened.  In  the  window,  a  woman  showed  herself. 
I  instantly  recognised  her,  although  a  distance 
of  fifty  paces  lay  between  us,  although  a  light 
cloud  obscured  the  moon.  It  was  she,  my  Un- 
known of  Sorrento. 

But  she  did  not  stretch  forth  her  bare  arms 
as  before:  she  folded  them  quietly,  and  leaning 
them  on  the  window-sill,  began  to  gaze  silently 
and  immovably  at  some  point  in  the  garden.  Yes, 
it  was  she;  those  were  her  never-to-be-forgotten 
features,  her  eyes,  the  like  of  which  I  had  never 
beheld.  Now,  also,  an  ample  white  gown  en- 
folded her  limbs.  She  seemed  somewhat  plumper 
than  in  Sorrento.  Everything  about  exhaled  an 
atmosphere  of  the  confidence  and  repose  of  love, 
the  triumpJi  of  beauty,  of  calm  happiness.  For 
a  long  time  she  did  not  stir,  then  she  cast  a 
glance  backward  into  the  room  and,  suddenly 
straightening  herself  up,  exclaimed  thrice,  in 
a  loud  and  ringing  voice:  ''  Addio! "  The  beau- 
tiful sounds  were  wafted  far,  far  away,  and  for 
a  long  time  they  quivered,  growing  fainter  and 
dying  out  beneath  the  lindens  of  the  garden  and 
in  the  fields  behind  me,  and  everywhere.  Every- 
thing around  me  was  filled  for  several  minutes 
with  the  voice  of  this  woman,  everything  rang  in 
response  to  her,— rang  with  her.  She  shut  the 
window,  and  a  few  moments  later  the  light  in  the 
house  vanished. 

158 


THREE   MEETINGS 

As  soon  as  I  recovered  myself — and  this  was 
not  very  soon,  I  must  admit— I  immediately  di- 
rected my  course  along  the  garden  of  the  manor, 
approached  the  closed  gate,  and  peered  through 
the  wattled  fence.  Nothing  out  of  the  ordinary 
was  visible  in  the  courtyard ;  in  one  corner,  under 
a  shed,  stood  a  calash.  Its  front  half,  all  bespat- 
tered with  dried  mud,  shone  out  sharply  white  in 
the  moonlight.  The  shutters  of  the  house  were 
closed,  as  before. 

I  have  forgotten  to  say,  that  for  about  a  week 
previous  to  that  day,  I  had  not  visited  Glinnoe. 
For  more  than  half  an  hour  I  paced  to  and  fro 
in  perplexity  in  front  of  the  fence,  so  that,  at  last, 
I  attracted  the  attention  of  the  old  watch-dog, 
which,  nevertheless,  did  not  begin  to  bark  at  me, 
but  merely  looked  at  me  from  under  the  gate 
in  a  remarkably  ironical  manner,  with  his  pur- 
blind little  eyes  puckered  up.  I  understood  his 
hint,  and  beat  a  retreat.  But  before  I  had  man- 
aged to  traverse  half  a  verst,  I  suddenly  heard 
the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  behind  me.  ...  In 
a  few  minutes  a  rider,  mounted  on  a  black  horse, 
dashed  past  me  at  a  swift  trot,  and  swiftly  turn- 
ing toward  me  his  face,  where  I  could  descry 
nothing  save  an  aquihne  nose  and  a  very  hand- 
some moustache  under  his  military  cap,  which  was 
pulled  well  down  on  his  brow,  turned  into  the 
right-hand  road,  and  immediately  vanished  be- 
hind the  forest. 

"  So  that  is  he,"  I  thought  to  myself,  and  my 
159 


THREE   MEETINGS 

heart  stirred  within  me  in  a  strange  sort  of  way. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  I  recognised  him ;  his  figure 
really  did  suggest  the  figure  of  the  man  whom  I 
had  seen  enter  the  garden-gate  in  Sorrento.  Half 
an  hour  later  I  was  in  Glinnoe  at  my  host's,  had 
roused  him,  and  had  immediately  begun  to  in- 
terrogate him  as  to  the  persons  who  had  arrived 
at  the  neighbouring  farm.  He  replied  with  an 
effort  that  the  ladies  had  arrived. 

"  But  what  ladies?  " 

"  Why,  everybody  knows  what  ladies,"  he  re- 
plied very  languidly. 

"  Russians? " 

"  What  else  should  they  be?— Russians,  of 
course." 

"  Not  foreigners?  " 

"Hey?" 

"  Have  they  been  here  long?  " 

*'  Not  long,  of  course." 

"  And  have  they  come  to  stay  long?  " 

"  That  I  don't  know." 

"  Are  they  wealthy?  " 

"  And  that,  too,  we  don't  know.  Perhaps  they 
are  wealthy." 

"Did  not  a  gentleman  come  with  them?  " 

"A  gentleman?" 

"  Yes,  a  gentleman." 

The  Elder  sighed. 

"  O,  okh,  О  Lord!"— he  ejaculated  with  a 
yawn.  ..."  N-n-o,  there  was  no  ...  .  gentle- 

160 


THREE   MEETINGS 

man,  I  think  there  was  no  gentleman.     I  don't 
know!  " — he  suddenly  added. 

"  And  what  sort  of  other  neighbours  are  living 
here? " 

"  What  sort?  everybody  knows  what  sort, — all 
sorts." 

"  All  sorts?— And  лvhat  are  their  names?  " 

"  Whose— the  lady  proprietors'?  or  the  neigh- 
bours'?" 

"  The  lady  proprietors'." 

Again  the  Elder  yawned. 

"What  are  their  names?"— he  muttered.— 
"  Why,  God  knows  what  their  names  are!  The 
elder,  I  think,  is  named  Anna  Feodorovna,  and 
the  other  .  .  .  No,  I  don't  know  that  one's  name." 

"  Well,  what  's  their  surname,  at  least? " 

"  Their  surname? " 

"  Yes,  their  surname,  their  family  name." 

"  Their  family  name.  .  .  .  Yes.  Why,  as  God 
is  my  witness,  I  don't  know." 

"  Are  they  young?  " 

"  Well,  no.    They  are  not." 

"  How  old  are  they,  then?  " 

"  Why,  the  youngest  must  be  over  forty." 

"  Thou  art  inventing  the  whole  of  this." 

The  Elder  was  silent  for  a  while. 

"  Well,  you  must  know  best.  But  I  don't 
know." 

"  Well,  thou  art  wound  up  to  say  one  thing!  " 
—I  exclaimed  with  vexation. 

161 


THREE   MEETINGS 

Knowing,  by  experience,  that  there  is  no  pos- 
sibiHty  of  extracting  anything  lucid  from  a  Rus- 
sian man  when  once  he  undertakes  to  answer  in 
that  way  (and,  moreover,  my  host  had  only  just 
thrown  himself  down  to  sleep,  and  swayed  for- 
ward slightly  before  every  answer,  opening  his 
eyes  widely  with  child-like  surprise,  and  with  dif- 
ficulty ungluing  his  lips,  smeared  with  the  honey 
of  the  first,  sweet  slumber),— I  gave  up  in  de- 
spair, and  declining  supper,  went  into  the  barn. 

I  could  not  get  to  sleep  for  a  long  time. 
"  Who  is  she?  " — I  kept  incessantly  asking  my- 
self:—" a  Russian?  If  a  Russian,  why  does  she 
speak  in  Italian?  ....  The  Elder  declares  that 
she  is  not  young.  .  .  .  But  he  's  lying.  .  .  .  And 
who  is  that  happy  man?  .  .  Positively,  I  can  com- 
prehend nothing.  .  .  But  what  a  strange  adven- 
ture! Is  it  possible  that  thus,  twice  in  succes- 
sion   But  I  will  infallibly  find  out  who 

she  is,  and  why  she  has  come  hither."  .  .  .  Agi- 
tated by  such  disordered,  fragmentary  thoughts 
as  these,  I  fell  asleep  late,  and  saw  strange 
visions.  .  .  .  Now  it  seems  to  me  that  I  am 
wandering  in  some  desert,  in  the  very  blaze  of 
noonday — and  suddenl}^  I  behold  in  front  of 
me,  a  huge  spot  of  shadow  running  over  the  red- 
hot  yellow  sand.  .  .  I  raise  my  head— 't  is  she, 
my  beauty,  whisking  through  the  air,  all  white, 
with  long  white  wings,  and  beckoning  me  to 
her.     I  dart  after  her;  but  she  floats  on  lightly 

162 


THREE   MEETINGS 

and  swiftly,  and  I  cannot  rise  from  the  ground, 
and  stretch  out  eager  hands  in  vain.  .  .  .  "  Ad- 
dio! "  she  says  to  me,  as  she  flies  away. — "  Why 
hast  thou  not  wings?  .  .  Addiol"  ....  And 
lo,  from  all  sides,  "Addiol"  resounds.  Every 
grain  of  sand  shouts  and  squeaks  at  me:  "Ad- 
diol" .  .  .  then  rings  out  in  an  intolerable, 
piercing  trill.  .  .  I  brush  it  aside,  as  I  would  a 
gnat,  I  seek  her  with  my  eyes  .  .  .  and  already 
she  has  become  a  cloud,  and  is  floating  upward 
softly  toward  the  sun;  the  sun  quivers,  rocks, 
laughs,  stretches  out  to  meet  her  long  golden 
threads,  and  now  those  threads  have  enmeshed 
her,  and  she  melts  into  them,  but  I  shout  at  the 
top  of  my  lungs,  like  a  madman:  "  That  is  not 
the  sun,  that  is  not  the  sun,  that  is  an  Italian 
spider.  Who  gave  it  a  passport  for  Russia?  I  '11 
show  him  up  for  what  he  is:  I  saw  him  stealing 
oranges  from  other  people's  gardens."  .  .  .  Then 
it  seems  to  me  that  I  am  walking  along  a  narrow 
mountain  path.  .  .  I  hurry  onward:  I  must  get 
somewhere  or  other  as  quickly  as  possible,  some 
unheard-of  happiness  is  awaiting  me.  Suddenly 
a  vast  cliiF  rears  itself  up  in  front  of  me.  I  seek  a 
passage;  I  go  to  the  right,  I  go  to  the  left — 
there  is  no  passage !  And  now  behind  the  cliff  a 
voice  suddenly  rings  out:  " Passa,  passa  quel 
colli."  ...  It  is  calHng  me,  that  voice;  it  re- 
peats its  mournful  summons.  I  fling  myself 
about  in  anguish,  I  seek  even  the  smallest  cleft. 

163 


THREE   MEETINGS 

.  .  .  Alas!  the  cliff  is  perpendicular,  there  is 
granite  everywhere.  .  .  ."  Passa  quel  colli''  wails 
the  voice  again.  My  heart  aches,  and  I  hurl  my 
breast  against  the  smooth  stone ;  I  scratch  it  with 
my  nails,  in  my  frenzy.  ...  A  dark  passage 
suddenly  opens  before  me.  .  .  Swooning  with 
joy,  I  dash  forward.  .  .  "  Nonsense!  "  some  one 
cries  to  me: — "  thou  shalt  not  pass  through."  .  . 
I  look:  Lukyanitch  is  standing  in  front  of  me 
and  threatening,  and  brandishing  his  arms.  .  .  I 
hastily  fumble  in  my  pockets:  I  want  to  bribe 
him;  but  there  is  nothing  in  my  pockets.  .  .  . 

"  Lukyanitch," — I  say  to  him, — "  let  me  pass; 
I  will  reward  thee  afterward." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  signor,"  Lukyanitch  re- 
plies to  me,  and  his  face  assumes  a  strange  ex- 
pression:— "  I  am  not  a  house-serf;  recognise  in 
me  Don  Quixote  de  La  INIancha,  the  famous  wan- 
dering knight ;  all  my  life  long  I  have  been  seek- 
ing my  Dulcinea — and  I  have  not  been  able  to 
find  her,  and  I  will  not  tolerate  it,  that  you  shall 
find  yours." 

''  Passa  quel  colli "  .  .  .  .  rings  out  again  the 
almost  sobbing  voice. 

"Stand  aside,  signor!" — I  shout  wrathfully, 
and  am  on  the  point  of  precipitating  myself  for- 
ward .  .  .  but  the  knight's  long  spear  wounds 
me  in  the  very  heart.  .  .  I  fall  dead,  .  .  I  lie 
on  my  back.  .  .  I  cannot  move  .  .  .  and  lo,  I 
see  that  she  is  coming  with  a  lamp  in  her  hand, 

164 


THREE   MEETINGS 

and  elevating  it  лvith  a  fine  gesture  above  her 
head,  she  peers  about  her  in  the  gloom,  and  creep- 
ing cautiously  up,  bends  ол'ег  me.  .  . 

"  So  this  is  he,  that  jester!  "  she  says  with  a  dis- 
dainful laugh. — "  This  is  he  who  wanted  to  know 
who  I  am!  "  and  the  hot  oil  from  her  lamp  drips 
straight  upon  my  wounded  heart.  .  . 

"Psyche!"— I  exclaim  with  an  effort,  and 
awake. 

All  night  long  I  slept  badly  and  was  afoot  be- 
fore daybreak.  Hastily  dressing  and  arming 
myself,  I  wended  my  way  straight  to  the  manor. 
JNIy  impatience  was  so  great  that  the  dawn  had 
only  just  begun  to  flush  the  sky  when  I  reached 
the  familiar  gate.  Round  me  the  larks  were  sing- 
ing, the  daws  were  cawing  on  the  birches;  but  in 
the  house  everything  was  still  buried  in  death- 
like matutinal  slumber.  Even  the  dog  was 
snoring  behind  the  fence.  AVith  the  anguish 
of  expectation,  exasperated  almost  to  the 
point  of  wrath,  I  paced  to  and  fro  on  the 
dewy  grass,  and  kept  casting  incessant  glances 
at  the  low-roofed  and  ill-favoured  little  house 
which  contained  within  its  walls  that  mysterious 
being.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  the  wicket-gate  creaked  faintb^ 
opened,  and  Lukyanitch  made  his  appearance 
on  the  threshold,  in  some  sort  of  striped  kazak 
coat.  His  bristling,  long-drawn  face  seemed  to 
me  more  surly  than  ever.    Gazing  at  me  not  with- 

165 


THREE   MEETINGS 

out  surprise,  he  was  on  the  point  of  shutting  the 
wicket  again. 

"  My  good  fellow,  my  good  fellow!  "—I  cried 
hastily. 

"  What  do  you  want  at  such  an  early  hour?  "— 
he  returned  slowly  and  dully. 

"  Tell  me,  please,  they  say  that  your  mistress 
has  arrived? " 

Lukyanitch  made  no  reply  for  a  while. 

"She  has  arrived.  .  ." 

"Alone?" 

"  With  her  sister." 

"  Were  there  not  guests  with  you  last  night?  " 

"  No." 

And  he  drew  the  wicket  toward  him. 

"  Stay,  stay,  my  dear  fellow.  .  .  .  Do  me  a 
favour.  ..." 

Lukyanitch  coughed  and  shivered  with  cold. 

"  But  what  is  it  you  want?  " 

"  Tell  me,  please,  how  old  is  your  mistress?  " 

Lukyanitch    darted    a    suspicious    glance    at 
me. 

"  How  old  is  the  mistress?    I  don't  know.    She 
must  be  over  forty." 

"  Over  forty!    And  how  old  is  her  sister?  " 

"  Why,  she  's  in  the  neighbourhood  of  forty." 

"  You  don't  say  so !  And  is  she  good-looking?  " 

"Who,  the  sister?" 

"  Yes,  the  sister." 

Lukyanitch  grinned. 

166 


THREE   MEETINGS 

"  I  don't  know ;  that 's  as  a  person  fancies.  In 
my  opinion,  she  is  n't  comely." 

"How  so?" 

"  Because— she  's  very  ill-favoured.  A  bit 
puny." 

"  You  don't  say  so!  And  has  no  one  except 
them  come  hither? " 

"  No  one.    Who  should  come?  " 

"  But  that  cannot  be!  ...  I  ...  ." 

"Eh,  master!  there  's  no  end  of  talking  with 
you,  apparently," — retorted  the  old  man  with 
vexation. — "  Whew,  how  cold  it  is!    Good-bye." 

"  Stay,  stay  ....  here  's  something  for 
thee.  ..."  And  I  held  out  to  him  a  quarter  of 
a  ruble  which  I  had  prepared  beforehand;  but 
my  hand  came  into  contact  with  the  swiftly 
banged  wicket-gate.  The  silver  coin  fell  to  the 
ground,  rolled  away,  and  lay  at  my  feet. 

"Ah,  thou  old  rascal!"— I  thought— "  Don 
Quixote  de  La  Mancha !  Evidently,  thou  hast  re- 
ceived orders  to  hold  thy  tongue.  .  .  .  But  wait, 
thou  shalt  not  trick  me."  .  .  . 

I  promised  myself  that  I  would  elucidate  the 
matter,  at  any  cost.  For  about  half  an  hour  I 
paced  to  and  fro,  without  knowing  what  decision 
to  adopt.  At  last  I  made  up  my  mind  first  to 
inquire  in  the  village,  precisely  who  had  arrived 
at  the  manor,  and  who  she  was,  then  to  return, 
and,  as  the  saying  runs,  not  desist  until  the  matter 
was  cleared  up. — And  if  the  Unknown  should 

167 


THREE   MEETINGS 

come  out  of  the  house,  I  would,  at  last,  see  her  by 
daylight,  near  at  hand,  like  a  living  woman,  not 
like  a  vision. 

It  was  about  a  verst  to  the  village,  and  I  imme- 
diately betook  myself  thither,  stepping  out  lightly 
and  alertly:  a  strange  audacity  was  seething  and 
sparkling  in  my  blood;  the  invigorating  fresh- 
ness of  the  morning  excited  me  after  the  uneasy 
night. — In  the  village  I  learned  from  two  peas- 
ants, who  were  on  their  way  to  their  work,  every- 
thing which  I  could  learn  from  them;  namely: 
I  learned  that  the  manor,  together  with  the  village 
which  I  had  entered,  was  called  Mikhailovskoe, 
that  it  belonged  to  the  widow  of  a  Major,  Anna 
Feodorovna  ShlykofF;  that  she  had  with  her  her 
sister,  an  unmarried  woman,  Pelageya  Feodo- 
rovna BadaefF  by  name;  that  both  of  them  were 
advanced  in  years,  were  wealthy,  hardly  ever  lived 
at  home,  were  always  travelling  about,  kept  no 
one  in  attendance  on  them  except  two  female 
domestic  serfs  and  a  male  cook;  that  Anna  Feo- 
dorovna had  recently  returned  from  Moscow  with 
no  one  but  her  sister.  .  .  .  This  last  circum- 
stance greatly  perturbed  me:  it  was  impossible 
to  assume  that  the  peasants  also  had  been  com- 
manded to  hold  their  peace  about  my  Unknown. 
But  it  was  utterly  impossible  to  concede  that 
Anna  Feodorovna  ShlykofF,  a  widow  of  five-and- 
forty,  and  that  young,  charming  woman,  whom 
I  had  seen  on  the  previous  evening,  were  one  and 

168 


THREE   MEETINGS 

the  same  person.  Pelageya  Feodorovna,  judg- 
ing from  the  description,  was  not  distinguished 
for  her  beauty  either,  and,  in  addition  to  that, 
at  the  mere  thought  that  the  woman  whom  I  had 
seen  at  Sorrento  could  bear  the  name  of  Pelageya, 
and  still  more  of  BadaefF,  I  shrugged  my  shoul- 
ders and  laughed  maliciously.  And  neverthe- 
less, I  had  beheld  her  the  night  before  in  that 
house.  ...  I  had  beheld  her,  beheld  her  with 
my  own  eyes,  I  reflected.  Irritated,  enraged,  but 
still  more  inclined  to  stand  by  my  intention,  I 
would  have  liked  to  return  at  once  to  the  manor 
.  .  .  .  but  glanced  at  my  watch;  it  was  not  yet 
six  o'clock.  I  decided  to  wait  a  while.  Every 
one  was  still  asleep  at  the  farm,  in  all  probability 
.  .  .  and  to  prowl  about  the  house  at  such  an  hour 
would  only  serve  to  arouse  unnecessary  suspicion ; 
and  besides,  in  front  of  me  stretched  bushes,  and 
beyond  them  an  aspen  wood  was  visible.  .  . 

I  must  do  myself  the  justice  to  say,  that,  not- 
withstanding the  thoughts  which  were  exciting 
me,  the  noble  passion  for  the  hunt  had  not  yet 
grown  wholly  mute  within  me;  "perchance,"  I 
thought, — "  I  shall  hit  upon  a  covey, — and  that 
will  serve  to  pass  away  the  time."  I  entered  the 
bushes.  But,  truth  to  tell,  I  walked  in  a  very 
careless  way,  quite  out  of  consonance  with  the 
rules  of  the  art:  I  did  not  follow  my  dog  con- 
stantly with  my  eyes,  I  did  not  snort  over  a 
thick  bush,  in  the  hope  that  a  red-browed  black 

109 


THREE   MEETINGS 

snipe  would  fly  thence  with  a  whirr  and  a  crash, 
but  kept  incessantly  looking  at  my  watch,  which 
never  serves  any  purpose  whatsoever.  And,  at 
last,  it  was  going  on  nine. — "  'T  is  time!  "  I  ex- 
claimed aloud,  and  was  on  the  point  of  turning 
back  to  the  manor,  when  suddenly  a  huge  black 
woodcock  actually  did  begin  to  flutter  out  of 
the  thick  grass  a  couple  of  paces  from  me.  I 
fired  at  the  magnificent  bird,  and  wounded  it 
under  the  wing ;  it  almost  fell  to  the  ground,  but 
recovered  itself,  started  off*,  fluttering  its  wings 
swiftly  and,  diving  toward  the  wood,  tried  to  soar 
above  the  first  aspens  on  the  edge,  but  its  strength 
failed,  and  it  rolled  headlong  into  the  thicket.  It 
would  have  been  utterly  unpardonable  to  abandon 
such  a  prize.  I  strode  briskly  after  it,  entered 
the  forest,  made  a  sign  to  Dianka,  and  a  few 
moments  later  I  heard  a  feeble  clucking  and 
flapping;  it  was  the  unlucky  woodcock,  strug- 
gling under  the  paws  of  my  quick-scented  hound. 
I  picked  it  up,  put  it  in  my  game-bag,  glanced 
round,  and— remained  rooted  to  the  spot,  as  it 
were.  .  .  . 

The  forest  which  I  had  entered  was  very  dense 
and  wild,  so  that  I  had  with  difficulty  made  my 
way  to  the  spot  where  the  bird  had  fallen;  but 
at  a  short  distance  from  me  wound  a  cart-road, 
and  along  this  road  were  riding  on  horseback 
my  beauty  and  the  man  who  had  overtaken  me 
on  the  night  before;  I  recognised  him  by  his 

170 


THREE   MEETINGS 

moustache.  They  were  riding  softly,  in  silence, 
holding  each  other  by  the  hand ;  their  horses  were 
barely  putting  one  foot  before  the  other,  lazily 
swaying  from  side  to  side  and  handsomely 
stretching  out  their  long  necks.  When  I  had 
recovered  from  my  first  alarm  .  .  .  precisely 
that,  alarm:  I  can  give  no  other  appellation  to 
the  feeling  which  suddenly  seized  upon  me.  .  .  . 
I  fairly  bored  into  her  with  my  eyes.  How  beau- 
tiful she  was!  how  enchantingly  her  graceful 
form  moved  toward  me  amid  the  emerald  green! 
Soft  shadows,  tender  reflections  glided  over  her 
— over  her  long  grey  habit,  over  her  slender, 
sMghtly-bent  neck,  over  her  faintly -rosy  face,  over 
her  glossy  black  hair,  which  escaped  luxuriantly 
from  under  her  low-crowned  hat.  But  how  shall 
I  transmit  that  expression  of  utter,  passionate 
bliss  of  a  person  passionate  to  the  point  of 
speechlessness,  which  breathed  forth  from  her 
features?  Her  head  seemed  to  be  bending  be- 
neath the  burden  of  it ;  moist,  golden  sparks  glit- 
tered in  her  dark  eyes,  which  were  half -concealed 
by  her  eyelashes ;  they  gazed  nowhere,  those  happy 
eyes,  and  the  slender  brows  drooped  over  them. 
An  irresolute,  child-like  smile — the  smile  of  pro- 
found happiness,  strayed  over  her  lips ;  it  seemed 
as  though  excess  of  happiness  had  wearied  and 
even  broken  her  a  little,  as  a  flower  in  full  bloom 
sometimes  breaks  its  own  stem.  Both  her  hands 
lay  powerless:  one,  in  the  hand  of  the  man  who 

171 


THREE   MEETINGS 

was  riding  by  her  side,  the  other  on  her  horse's 
mane. 

I  succeeded  in  getting  a  good  look  at  her 
— and  at  him  also.  .  .  .  He  was  a  handsome, 
stately  man,  with  an  un-Russian  face.  He  was 
gazing  at  her  boldly  and  merrily,  and,  so  far 
as  I  was  able  to  observe,  was  admiring  her  not 
without  secret  pride.  He  was  admiring  her,  the 
villain,  and  was  very  well-satisfied  with  himself, 
and  not  sufficiently  touched,  not  sufficiently 
moved, — precisely  that,  moved.  .  .  And,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  what  man  does  deserve  such  devotion, 
what  soul,  even  the  most  beautiful,  is  worthy  of 
furnishing  another  soul  such  happiness?  I  must 
say,  that  I  was  envious  of  him!  ....  In  the 
meantime,  they  had  both  arrived  on  a  level  with 
me  .  .  .  my  dog  suddenly  bounded  out  into  the 
road  and  began  to  bark.  My  Unknown  started, 
cast  a  swift  glance  around  and,  catching  sight 
of  me,  dealt  her  steed  a  violent  blow  on  the 
neck  with  her  whip.  The  horse  snorted,  reared 
up  on  his  hind  legs,  threw  both  his  hoofs  forward 
simultaneously,  and  dashed  off  at  a  gallop.  .  .  . 
The  man  immediately  gave  the  spur  to  his  black 
horse,  and  when  I  emerged  by  the  road  into  the 
border  of  the  forest  a  few  moments  later,  both 
of  them  were  already  galloping  off  into  the 
golden  distance,  across  the  fields,  rising  smartly 
and  regularly  in  their  saddles  .  .  .  and  were  not 
galloping  in  the  direction  of  the  farm.  .  .  . 

172 


THREE   MEETINGS 

I  gazed.  .  .  .  They  speedily  disappeared  be- 
hind a  hillock,  brilliantly  illuminated  for  the  last 
time  by  the  sun  against  the  dark  line  of  the  hori- 
zon. I  stood,  and  stood,  then  returned  with  slow 
steps  to  the  forest  and  sat  down  on  the  path, 
covering  my  eyes  with  my  hand. — I  have  ob- 
served that  after  meeting  strangers,  all  that  is 
necessary  is  to  close  the  eyes — and  their  features 
immediately  start  up  before  you;  any  one  can 
verify  my  observation  on  the  street.  The  more 
familiar  the  faces,  the  more  difficult  is  it  for  them 
to  present  themselves,  the  more  indefinite  is  their 
impression;  you  recall  them,  but  you  do  not  see 
them,  ....  and  you  can  never  possibly  picture 
to  yourself  your  own  face.  .  .  .  The  very  mi- 
nutest separate  feature  is  known  to  you,  but  the 
entire  image  will  not  constitute  itself.  So  then, 
I  sat  down,  closed  my  eyes — and  immediately 
beheld  the  Unknown  and  her  companion,  and 
their  horses,  and  everything.  .  .  .  The  man's 
smiling  countenance  stood  before  me  with  par- 
ticular sharpness  and  distinctness.  I  began  to 
stare  intently  at  it  ...  it  became  confused,  and 
dissolved  into  a  sort  of  crimson  mist,  and  after 
it,  her  image  also  floated  away  and  sank,  and 
would  not  return. 

"Well,  never  mind!"— I  thought;— "at  all 
events,  I  have  seen  them,  seen  them  both  clearly. 
...  It  remains  for  me  now  to  find  out  their 
names."     Endeavour  to  find  out  their  names! 

173 


THREE   MEETINGS 

What  ill-judged,  petty  curiosity!  But  I  swear 
that  it  was  not  curiosity  which  had  flamed  up  in 
me.  In  truth,  it  simply  seemed  to  me  impossible 
not  to  discover,  eventually,  who  they  were,  after 
accident  had  so  strangely  and  so  persistently 
brought  us  together.  Moreover,  my  former  im- 
patient perplexity  no  longer  existed;  it  had  been 
replaced  b}^  a  certain  confused,  sorrowful  feeling, 
of  which  I  was  somewhat  ashamed.  ...  I  was 
jealous.  .  .  . 

I  did  not  hasten  back  to  the  farm.  I  must 
confess  that  I  had  become  ashamed  to  pry  into 
the  secrets  of  others.  Moreover,  the  appearance 
of  the  fond  pair  by  daylight,  in  the  light  of  the 
sun,  although  it  was  unexpected  and,  I  repeat, 
strange,  had  not  exactly  soothed,  but  chilled  me. 
I  no  longer  found  anything  supernatural,  mirac- 
ulous in  this  occurrence  ....  nothing  resem- 
bling an  impossible  dream.  .  .  . 

I  began  to  hunt  again  with  greater  assiduity 
than  before ;  but  still,  there  were  no  genuine  rap- 
tures. I  hit  upon  a  covey,  which  engaged  my 
attention  for  an  hour  and  a  half.  .  .  The  young 
partridges  did  not  respond  to  my  whistle  for  a 
long  time, — probably  because  I  did  not  whistle 
with  sufficient  "  objectivity." — The  sun  had  al- 
ready risen  quite  high  (my  watch  indicated  twelve 
o'clock),  when  I  directed  my  steps  toward  the 
manor.  I  walked  without  haste.  Yonder,  at  last, 
the  low-roofed  little  house  peeped  forth  from  its 

174 


THREE   MEETINGS 

hill.  I  approached  ....  and  not  without 
secret  satisfaction  beheld  Liikyanitch.  As  of 
yore,  he  was  sitting  motionless  on  the  bench  in 
front  of  the  wing.  The  gate  was  closed— also 
the  shutters. 

"Good  morning,  uncle!"— I  shouted  to  him 
from  afar.—"  Hast  thou  come  out  to  warm  thy- 
self? " 

Lukyanitch  turned  his  gaunt  face  toward  me 
and  silently  doffed  his  cap. 

I  went  up  to  him. 

"  Good  morning,  uncle,  good  morning,"— I 
repeated,  wishing  to  encourage  him. — "  Why," 
—I  added,  unexpectedly  descrying  my  quar- 
terruble  on  the  ground,—"  didst  not  thou  see 
it?" 

And  I  pointed  out  to  him  the  silver  circle,  half 
peeping  from  beneath  the  short  grass. 

"  Yes,  I  saw  it." 

"  Then  why  didst  thou  not  pick  it  up?  " 

"  Because  it  was  n't  my  money,  so  I  did  n't 
pick  it  up." 

"What  a  fellow  thou  art,  brother!"— I  re- 
turned, not  without  embarrassment,  and  picking 
up  the  coin,  I  offered  it  to  him  again. — "  Take 
it,  take  it,  for  tea." 

"  Much  obliged,"— Lukyanitch  answered  me, 
with  a  composed  smile.  —  "  It  is  n't  necessary;  I  '11 
manage  to  pull  through  without  it.  Much 
obliged." 

175 


THREE   MEETINGS 

"  But  I  am  ready  to  give  you  still  more,  with 
pleasure!  "—I  replied  in  confusion. 

"  What  for?  Please  don't  disturb  yourself— 
much  obliged  for  your  good-will,  but  we  still  have 
a  crust  of  bread.  And  perhaps  we  sha'n't  eat 
that  up— that  's  as  it  may  happen." 

And  he  rose,  and  put  out  his  hand  to  the  wicket- 
gate. 

"  Stay,  stay,  old  man,"— I  began,  almost  in 
desperation;— "  how  uncommunicative  thou  art 
to-day,  really.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  at  least,  has  your 
mistress  risen  yet? " 

"  She  has." 

"  And  ....  is  she  at  home?  " 

"  No,  she  's  not  at  home." 

"  Has  she  gone  off  on  a  visit,  pray?  " 

"  No,  sir;  she  has  gone  to  Moscow." 

"  To  Moscow!  How  is  that?  Why,  she  was 
here  this  morning !  " 

"  She  was." 

"  And  she  passed  the  night  here?  " 

"  She  did." 

"  And  she  came  hither  recently?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  What  next,  my  good  man?  " 

"  Why,  this :  it  must  be  about  an  hour  since 
she  deigned  to  start  back  to  Moscow." 

"To  Moscow!" 

I  stared  in  petrification  at  Lukyanitch;  I  had 
not  expected  this,  I  admit. 

176 


THREE  MEETINGS 

Lukyanitch  stared  at  me.  ...  A  crafty,  senile 
smile  distended  his  withered  lips  and  almost 
beamed  in  his  melancholy  eyes. 

"  And  did  she  go  away  with  her  sister?  "—I 
said  at  last. 

"  Yes." 

"  So  that  now  there  is  no  one  in  the  house?  " 

"  No  one.  .  .  ." 

"  This  old  man  is  deceiving  me,"— flashed 
through  my  head. — "  'T  is  not  without  cause  that 
he  is  grinning  so  craftily. — Listen,  Lukyanitch," 
—I  said  aloud;— "dost  wish  to  do  me  one  fa- 
vourf 

"  What  is  it  you  wish?  " — he  enunciated  slowly, 
evidently  beginning  to  feel  annoyed  by  my  ques- 
tions. 

"  Thou  sayest  that  there  is  no  one  in  the  house; 
canst  thou  show  it  to  me?  I  should  be  very  grate- 
ful to  thee." 

"  That  is,  you  want  to  inspect  the  rooms?  " 

"  Yes,  the  rooms." 

Lukyanitch  remained  silent  for  a  space. 

*'  Very  well,"— he  said  at  last.—"  Pray,  en- 
ter. .  .  ." 

And  bending  down,  he  stepped  across  the 
threshold  of  the  wicket-gate.  I  followed  him. 
After  traversing  a  tiny  courtyard,  we  ascended 
the  tottering  steps  of  the  porch.  The  old  man  gave 
the  door  a  push;  there  was  no  lock  on  it:  a  cord 
with  a  knot  stuck  out  through  the  key-hole.  .  .  . 

177 


THREE   MEETINGS 

We  entered  the  house.  It  consisted  in  all  of  five  or 
six  low-ceiled  rooms,  and,  so  far  as  I  could  make 
out  in  the  faint  light,  which  streamed  sparsely 
through  the  rifts  in  the  shutters,  the  furniture  in 
these  rooms  was  extremely  plain  and  decrepit. 
In  one  of  them  (namely,  in  the  one  which  opened 
on  the  garden)  stood  a  small,  antiquated  piano. 
...  I  raised  its  warped  lid  and  struck  the  keys: 
a  shrill,  hissing  sound  rang  out  and  died  feebly 
away,  as  though  complaining  of  my  audacity. 
It  was  impossible  to  discern  from  anything  that 
people  had  recently  left  the  house;  it  had  a  dead 
and  stifling  sort  of  smell — the  odour  of  an  unin- 
habited dwelling;  here  and  there,  indeed,  a  dis- 
carded paper  gave  one  to  understand,  by  its 
whiteness,  that  it  had  been  dropped  there  recently. 
I  picked  up  one  such  bit  of  paper ;  it  proved  to  be 
a  scrap  of  a  letter;  on  one  side  in  a  dashing 
feminine  handwriting  were  scrawled  the  words 
''  se  taire?  "  on  the  other  I  made  out  the  word 
"  bonheur"  .  .  .  On  a  small  round  table  near  the 
window  stood  a  nosegay  of  half -faded  flowers 
in  a  glass,  and  a  green,  rumpled  ribbon  was  lying 
there  also  ....  I  took  that  ribbon  as  a  souvenir. 
— Lukyanitch  opened  a  narrow  door,  pasted  over 
with  wall-paper. 

"  Here,"— said  he,  extending  his  hand: — "  this 
here  is  the  bedroom,  and  yonder,  beyond  it,  is 
the  room  for  the  maids,  and  there  are  no  other 
chambers.  ..." 

178 


THREE   MEETINGS 

We  returned  by  way  of  the  corridor.—"  And 
what  room  is  that  yonder?  "—I  asked,  pointing 
at  a  broad,  white  door  with  a  lock. 

"  That?  "— Lukyanitch  answered  me,  in  a  dull 
voice. — "  That  's  nothing." 

"How  so?" 

"  Because.  ...  'T  is  a  store-room.  .  ."  And 
he  started  to  go  into  the  anteroom. 

"A  store-room?    Cannot  I  look  at  it? "  .  .  . 

"  What  makes  you  want  to  do  that,  master, 
really?  !  " — replied  Lukyanitch  with  displeasure. 
— "  What  is  there  for  you  to  look  at?  Chests, 
old  crockery  .  .  .  't  is  a  store-room,  and  nothing 
more.  .  .  ." 

"  All  the  same,  show  it  to  me,  please,  old  man," 
— I  said,  although  I  was  inwardly  ashamed  of  my 
indecent  persistence. — "  I  should  like,  you  see 
....  I  should  like  to  have  just  such  a  house  my- 
self at  home,  in  my  village  .  .  .  ." 

I  was  ashamed:  I  could  not  complete  the  sen- 
tence I  had  begun. 

Lukyanitch  stood  with  his  grey  head  bent  on 
his  breast,  and  stared  at  me  askance  in  a  strange 
sort  of  way. 

"  Show  it," — I  said. 

"  Well,  as  you  like," — he  replied  at  last,  got 
the  key,  and  reluctantly  opened  the  door. 

I  glanced  into  the  store-room.  There  really 
was  nothing  noteworthy  about  it.  On  the  walls 
hung  old  portraits  with  gloomy,  almost  black 

179 


THREE   MEETINGS 

countenances,  and  vicious  eyes.  The  floor  was 
strewn  with  all  sorts  of  rubbish. 

"  Well,  have  you  seen  all  you  want?  " — asked 
Lukyanitch,  gruffly. 

"  Yes;  thanks!  " — I  hastily  replied. 

He  slammed  to  the  door.  I  went  out  into  the 
anteroom,  and  from  the  anteroom  into  the  court- 
yard. 

Lukyanitch  escorted  me,  muttering:  "  Good- 
bye, sir!  "  and  went  off  to  his  own  wing. 

"  But  who  was  the  lady  visitor  at  your  house 
last  night?" — I  called  after  him: — "I  met  her 
this  morning  in  the  grove." 

I  had  hoped  to  daze  him  лvith  my  sudden  ques- 
tion, to  evoke  a  thoughtless  answer.  But  the  old 
man  merely  laughed  dully,  and  slammed  the  door 
behind  him  when  he  went  in. 

I  retraced  my  steps  to  Glinnoe.  I  felt  awk- 
ward, like  a  boy  who  has  been  put  to  shame. 

"  No,"— I  said  to  myself:—"  evidently,  I  shall 
not  obtain  a  solution  to  this  puzzle.  I  '11  give  it 
up!    I  will  think  no  more  of  all  this." 

An  hour  later,  I  set  out  on  my  homeward  drive, 
enraged  and  irritated. 

A  week  elapsed.  Try  as  I  might  to  banish 
from  me  the  memory  of  the  Unknown,  of  her 
companion,  of  my  meetings  with  them,— it  kept 
constantly  returning,  and  besieged  me  with  all 
the  importunate  persistence  of  an  after-dinner 
fly.  .  .  .  Lukyanitch,  with  his  mysterious  looks 

180 


THREE   MEETINGS 

and  reserved  speeches,  with  his  coldly-mournful 
smile,  also  recurred  incessantly  to  my  memory. 
The  house  itself,  when  I  thought  of  it, — that 
house  itself  gazed  at  me  cunningly  and  stupidly 
through  its  half -closed  shutters,  and  seemed  to 
be  jeering  at  me,  as  though  it  were  saying  to  me: 
"  And  all  the  same  thou  shalt  not  find  out  any- 
thing! "  At  last  I  could  endure  it  no  longer,  and 
one  fine  day  I  drove  to  Glinnoe,  and  from  Glin- 
noe  set  out  on  foot  ....  whither?  The  reader 
can  easily  divine. 

I  must  confess  that,  as  I  approached  the  mys- 
terious manor,  I  felt  a  decidedly  violent  agitation. 
The  exterior  of  the  house  had  not  undergone  the 
slightest  change:  the  same  closed  windows,  the 
same  melancholy  and  desolate  aspect;  only,  on 
the  bench,  in  front  of  the  wing,  instead  of  old 
Lukyanitch,  sat  some  young  House-serf  or  other, 
of  twenty,  in  a  long  nankeen  kaftan  and  a  red 
shirt.  He  was  sitting  with  his  curly  head  resting 
on  his  palm,  and  dozing,  swaying  to  and  fro  from 
time  to  time,  and  quivering. 

"  Good  morning,  brother!  "—I  said  in  a  loud 
voice. 

He  immediately  sprang  to  his  feet  and  stared 
at  me  with  widely-opened,  panic-stricken  eyes. 

"Good  morning,  brother!" — I  repeated: — 
"  And  where  is  the  old  man? " 

"  What  old  man?  "—said  the  young  fellow, 
slowly. 

181 


THREE   MEETINGS 

"  Lukyanitch." 

"Ah,  Lukyanitch! "— He  darted  a  glance 
aside.  — "  Do  you  want  Lukyanitch?" 

"Yes,  I  do.    Is  he  at  home?" 

"  N-no,"— enunciated  the  young  fellow,  bro- 
kenly,— "  he,  you  know  .  .  .  how  shall  I  .  .  . 
tell  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  about  ....  that  .  .  .  ." 

"  Is  he  ill?  " 

"  No." 

"  What  then?  " 

"  Why,  he  is  n't  here  at  all." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because.  Something  ....  unpleasant  .  .  . 
happened  to  him." 

"  Is  he  dead?  "—I  inquired  with  surprise. 

"  He  strangled  himself." 

"  Strangled  himself!  "—I  exclaimed  in  af- 
fright, and  clasped  my  hands. 

We  both  gazed  in  each  other's  eyes  in  silence. 

"  How  long  ago?  "—I  said  at  last. 

"  Why,  to-day  is  the  fifth  day  since.  They 
buried  him  yesterday." 

"  But  why  did  he  strangle  himself?  " 

"  The  Lord  knows.  He  was  a  freeman,  on 
wages ;  he  did  not  know  want,  the  masters  petted 
him  as  though  he  were  a  relation.  For  we  have 
such  good  masters— may  God  give  them  health! 
I  simply  can't  understand  what  came  over  him. 
Evidently,  the  Evil  One  entrapped  him." 

"But  how  did  he  do  it?" 
182 


THREE   MEETINGS 

"  Why,  so.    He  took  and  strangled  himself." 
"  And  nothing  of  the  sort  had  been  previously 
noticed  in  him? " 

"  How  shall  I  tell  you.  .  .  .  There  was  no- 
thing ....  particular.  He  was  always  a  very 
melancholy  man.  He  used  to  groan,  and  groan. 
'  I  'm  so  bored,'  he  would  say.  Well,  and  then 
there  was  his  age.  Of  late,  he  really  did  begin 
to  meditate  something.  He  used  to  come  to  us  in 
the  village;  for  I  'm  his  nephew.—'  Well,  Vasya, 
my  lad,'  he  would  say, '  prithee,  brother,  come  and 
spend  the  night  with  me! '— '  What  for,  uncle? ' 
— 'Why,  because  I'm  frightened,  somehow; 
't  is  tiresome  alone.'  Well,  and  so  I  'd  go  to  him. 
He  would  come  out  into  the  courtyard  and  stare 
and  stare  so  at  the  house,  and  shake  and  shake 
his  head,  and  how  he  would  sigh!  .  .  .  Just  be- 
fore that  night,  that  is  to  say,  the  one  on  which 
he  put  an  end  to  his  life,  he  came  to  us  again, 
and  invited  me.  Well,  and  so  I  went.  When 
we  reached  his  wing,  he  sat  for  a  while  on  the 
bench;  then  he  rose,  and  went  out.  I  wait,  and 
*  he  's  rather  long  in  coming  back  ' — says  I,  and 
went  out  into  the  courtyard,  and  shouted,  '  Un- 
cle !  hey,  uncle ! '  My  uncle  did  not  call  back. 
Thinks  I : '  AVhither  can  he  have  gone  ?  surely,  not 
into  the  house  ? '  and  I  went  into  the  house. 
Twilight  was  already  drawing  on.  And  as  I  was 
passing  the  store-room,  I  heard  something 
scratching  there,  behind  the  door;  so  I  took  and 

183 


THREE   MEETINGS 

opened  the  door.  Behold,  there  he  sat  doubled  up 
under  the  window. 

"  '  What  art  thou  doing  there,  uncle? '  says  I. 
But  he  turns  round,  and  how  he  shouts  at  me,  and 
his  eyes  are  so  keen,  so  keen,  they  fairly  blaze, 
like  a  cat's. 

"  '  What  dost  thou  want?  Dost  not  see— I  am 
shaving  myself.'  And  his  voice  Avas  so  hoarse. 
My  hair  suddenly  rose  upright,  and  I  don't  know 
why  I  got  frightened  .  .  .  evidently,  about  that 
time  the  devils  had  already  assailed  him. 

"  '  What,  in  the  dark?  '—says  I,  and  my  knees 
fairly  shook. 

"  '  Come,'  says  he,  '  it  's  all  right,  begone  I ' 

"  I  went,  and  he  came  out  of  the  store-room 
and  locked  the  door.  So  we  went  back  to  the 
wing,  and  the  terror  immediately  left  me. 

"  '  What  wast  thou  doing  in  the  store-room, 
uncle? '  says  I.— He  was  fairly  frightened. 

"'Hold  thy  tongue!'  says  he;  'hold  thy 
tongue ! '  and  he  crawled  up  on  the  oven-bench. 

"  '  Well,'  thinks  I  to  myself,—'  't  will  be  better 
for  me  not  to  speak  to  him;  he  surely  must  be 
feeling  ill  to-day.'  So  I  went  and  lay  down  on 
the  oven-bench  myself,  too.  And  a  night-light 
was  burning  in  a  corner.  So,  I  am  lying  there, 
and  just  dozing,  you  know  .  .  .  when  suddenly 
I  hear  the  door  creaking  softly  .  .  .  and  it  opens 
—so,  a  little.  And  my  uncle  was  lying  with  his 
back  to  the  door,  and,  as  you  may  remember, 

184 


THREE   MEETINGS 

he  was  always  a  little  hard  of  hearing.    But  this 
time  he  sprang  up  suddenly.  .  . 

"  *  Who  's  calling  me,  hey?  who  is  it?  hast  come 
for  me,  for  me?  ! '  and  out  he  ran  into  the  yard 
without  his  hat.  .  .  . 

"  I  thought;  *  What 's  the  matter  with  him? ' 
and,  sinful  man  that  I  am,  I  fell  asleep  imme- 
diately. The  next  morning  I  woke  up  ...  . 
and  Lukyanitch  was  not  there. 

"  I  went  out  of  doors  and  began  to  call  him — he 
was  nowhere.    I  asked  the  watchman: 

"  '  Has  n't  my  uncle  come  out? '  says  I. 

"  'No,'  says  he,  '  I  have  n't  seen  him.'  .  .  . 

"  '  Has  n't  something  happened  to  him,  bro- 
ther? '  .  .  .  .  says  I.  .  . 

"  '  Oi! '  .  .  .  .  We  were  both  fairly  frightened. 

"  '  Come,  Feodosyeitch,'  says  I, '  come  on,'  says 
I, — '  let 's  see  whether  he  is  n't  in  the  house.' 

"  '  Come  on,'— says  he,  '  Vasily  Timofyeitch! ' 
but  he  himself  was  as  white  as  clay. 

"  We  entered  the  house.  .  .  I  was  about  to 
pass  the  store-room,  but  I  glanced  and  the  pad- 
lock was  hanging  open  on  the  hasp,  and  I  pushed 
the  door,  but  the  door  was  fastened  inside.  .  .  . 
Feodosyeitch  immediately  ran  round,  and  peeped 
in  at  the  window. 

"*  Vasily  Timofyeitch!'  he  cries;— 'his  legs 
are  hanging,  his  legs  .  .  .  ' 

"  I  ran  to  the  window.  And  they  were  his  legs, 
Lukyanitch's  legs.    And  he  had  hanged  himself 

185 


THREE   MEETINGS 

in  the  middle  of  the  room. — Well,  we  sent  for  the 
judge.  .  .  .  They  took  him  down  from  the  rope ; 
the  rope  was  tied  with  twelve  knots." 

"  Well,  what  did  the  court  say?  " 

"  Wliat  did  the  court  say?  Nothing.  They 
pondered  and  pondered  what  the  cause  might 
be.  There  was  no  cause.  And  so  they  decided 
that  he  must  have  been  out  of  his  mind.  His  head 
had  been  aching  of  late,  he  had  been  complaining 
very  frequently  of  his  head.  .  .  ." 

I  chatted  for  about  half  an  hour  longer  with  the 
young  fellow,  and  went  away,  at  last,  completely 
disconcerted.  I  must  confess  that  I  could  not 
look  at  that  rickety  house  without  a  secret,  super- 
stitious terror.  ...  A  month  later  I  quitted  my 
country-seat,  and  little  by  little  all  these  horrors, 
these  mysterious  encounters,  vanished  from  my 
mind. 

II 

Three  years  passed.  The  greater  part  of  that 
time  I  spent  in  Petersburg  and  abroad ;  and  even 
when  I  did  run  down  to  my  place  in  the  country, 
it  was  only  for  a  few  days  at  a  time,  so  that  I 
never  chanced  to  be  in  Glinnoe  or  in  Mikhailov- 
skoe  on  a  single  occasion.  Nowhere  had  I  seen 
my  beauty  nor  the  man.  One  day,  toward  the 
end  of  the  third  year,  in  Moscow,  I  chanced  to 
meet  Madame  Shlykoff  and  her  sister,  Pelageya 

186 


THREE   MEETINGS 

Badaeif— that  same  Pelageya  whom  I,  sinful 
man  that  I  am,  had  liitherto  regarded  as  a  myth- 
ical being — at  an  evening  gathering  in  the  house 
of  one  of  my  acquaintances.  Neither  of  the 
ladies  was  any  longer  young,  and  both  possessed 
pleasing  exteriors;  their  conversation  was  char- 
acterised by  wit  and  mirth:  they  had  travelled 
a  great  deal,  and  travelled  with  profit ;  easy  gaiety 
was  observable  in  their  manners.  But  they  and 
my  acquaintance  had  positively  nothing  in  com- 
mon. I  was  presented  to  them.  Madame  Shly- 
koff  and  I  dropped  into  conversation  (her  sister 
was  being  entertained  by  a  passing  geologist). 
I  informed  her  that  I  had  the  pleasure  of  being 
her  neighbour  in  ***  county. 

"  Ah!  I  really  do  possess  a  small  estate  there," 
— she  remarked, — "  near  Glinnoe." 

"Exactly,  exactly," — I  returned: — "I  know 
your  Mikhailovskoe.    Do  you  ever  go  thither?  " 

"I?-Rarely." 

"  Were  you  there  three  years  ago?  " 

"  Stay !  I  think  I  was.    Yes,  I  was,  that  is  true." 

"  With  your  sister,  or  alone?  " 

She  darted  a  glance  at  me. 

"  With  my  sister.  We  spent  about  a  week 
there.  On  business,  you  know.  However,  we 
saw  no  one." 

"  H'm.  ...  I  think  there  are  very  few  neigh- 
bours there." 

"  Yes,  very  few.  I  'm  not  fond  of  neighbours." 
187 


THREE   MEETINGS 

"  Tell  me,"— I  began;—"  I  believe  you  had  a 
catastrophe  there  that  same  year.  Lukya- 
nitch " 

Madame  ShlykoiF's  eyes  immediately  filled 
with  tears. 

"  And  did  you  know  him?  " — she  said  with  vi- 
vacity.— "  Such  a  misfortune!  He  was  a  very 
fine,  good  old  man  .  .  .  and  just  fancy,  without 
any  cause,  you  know  .  .  .  ." 

Madame  ShlykofF's  sister  approached  us.  She 
was,  in  all  probability,  beginning  to  be  bored  by 
the  learned  disquisitions  of  the  geologist  about 
the  formation  of  the  banks  of  the  Volga. 

"  Just  fancy,  Pauline," — began  my  compan- 
ion;— "  monsieur  kneлv  Lukyanitch." 

"Really?    Poor  old  man!" 

"  I  hunted  more  than  once  in  the  environs  of 
Mikhailovskoe  at  that  period,  when  you  were 
there  three  j^ears  ago," — I  remarked. 

"I?" — returned  Pelageya,  in  some  astonish- 
ment. 

"Well,  yes,  of  course!  "—hastily  interposed 
her  sister;  "is  it  possible  that  thou  dost  not  re- 
call it?  " 

And  she  looked  her  intently  in  the  eye. 

"  Akh,  yes,  yes  .  .  .  that  is  true!" — replied 
Pelageya,  suddenly. 

"  Ehe— he!  "  I  thought:  "  I  don't  beheve  you 
were  in  Mikhailovskoe,  my  dear." 

"  Will  not  you  sing  us  something,  Pelageya 
188 


THREE   MEETINGS 

Feodorovna?  " — suddenly  began  a  tall  young 
man,  with  a  crest  of  fair  hair  and  turbidly-sweet 
little  eyes. 

"  Really,  I  don't  know,"— said  Miss  Badaeff. 

"And  do  you  sing?" — I  exclaimed  with  vi- 
vacity, springing  up  briskly  from  my  seat.  "  For 
heaven's  sake  ....  akh,  for  heaven's  sake,  do 
sing  us  something." 

"  But  what  shall  I  sing  to  you? " 

"  Don't  you  know," — I  began,  using  my  ut- 
most endeavours  to  impart  to  my  face  an  indif- 
ferent and  easy  expression, — "  an  Italian  song 
...  it  begins  this  way :  '  Passa  quel  colli '  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Pelageya  with  perfect  inno- 
cence. "Do  you  want  me  to  sing  that?  Very 
weU." 

And  she  seated  herself  at  the  piano.  I,  like 
Hamlet,  riveted  my  eyes  on  Madame  ShlykofF. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  at  the  first  note  she  gave  a 
slight  start;  but  she  sat  quietly  to  the  end.  Miss 
Badaeff  sang  quite  well.  The  song  ended,  the 
customary  plaudits  resounded.  They  began  to 
urge  her  to  sing  something  else;  but  the  two  sis- 
ters exchanged  glances,  and  a  few  minutes  later 
they  took  their  departure.  As  they  left  the  room 
I  overheard  the  word  ''  imyoriun." 

"  I  deserved  it!  "  I  thought — and  did  not  meet 
them  again. 

Still  another  year  elapsed.  I  transferred  my 
residence  to  Petersburg.     Winter  arrived;  the 

189 


THREE   MEETINGS 

masquerades  began.  One  day,  as  I  emerged  at 
eleven  o'clock  at  night  from  the  house  of  a  friend, 
I  felt  myself  in  such  a  gloomy  frame  of  mind  that 
I  decided  to  betake  myself  to  the  masquerade  in 
the  Assembly  of  the  Nobility.^  For  a  long  time 
I  roamed  about  among  the  columns  and  past  the 
mirrors  with  a  discreetly-fatalistic  expression  on 
my  countenance — with  that  expression  which,  so 
far  as  I  have  observed,  makes  its  appearance  in 
such  cases  on  the  faces  of  the  most  well-bred  per- 
sons— why,  the  Lord  only  knows.  For  a  long 
time  I  roamed  about,  now  and  then  parrying  with 
a  jest  the  advances  of  divers  shrill  dominoes  with 
suspicious  lace  and  soiled  gloves,  and  still  more 
rarely  addressing  them.  For  a  long  time  I  sur- 
rendered my  ears  to  the  blare  of  the  trumpets  and 
the  whining  of  the  violins;  at  last,  being  pretty 
well  bored,  I  was  on  the  point  of  going  home 
....  and  ....  and  remained.  I  caught  sight 
of  a  woman  in  a  black  domino,  leaning  against  a 
column,— and  no  sooner  had  I  caught  sight  of  her 
than  I  stopped  short,  stepped  up  to  her,  and  .  .  . 
will  the  reader  believe  me?  ....  immediately 
recognised  in  her  my  Unknown.  How  I  recog- 
nised her:  whether  by  the  glance  which  she  ab- 
stractedly cast  upon  me  through  the  oblong  aper- 
ture in  her  mask,  or  by  the  wonderful  outlines  of 
her  shoulders  and  arms,  or  by  the  peculiarly  femi- 
nine stateliness  of  her  whole  form,  or,  in  conclu- 

iThe  Nobles'  Club.— Translator. 

190 


THREE   MEETINGS 

sion,  by  some  secret  voice  which  suddenly  spoke  in 
me,— I  cannot  say  ....  only,  recognise  her  I 
did.  With  a  quiver  in  my  heart,  I  walked  past  her 
several  times.  She  did  not  stir;  in  her  attitude 
there  was  something  so  hopelessly  sorrowful  that, 
as  I  gazed  at  her,  I  involuntarily  recalled  two 
lines  of  a  Spanish  romance : 

Soy  un  cuadro  de  tristeza, 
Arrimado  a  la  pared.  ^ 

I  stepped  behind  the  column  against  which  she 
was  leaning,  and  bending  my  head  down  to  her 
very  ear,  enunciated  softly: 

^^  Passa  quel  colli."  .  .  . 

She  began  to  tremble  all  over,  and  turned 
swiftly  round  to  me.  Our  eyes  met  at  very 
short  range,  and  I  was  able  to  observe  how  fright 
had  dilated  her  pupils.  Feebly  extending  one 
hand  in  perplexity,  she  gazed  at  me. 

"  On  May  6, 184*,  in  Sorrento,  at  ten  o'clock  in 
the  evening,  in  della  Croce  Street," — I  said  in  a 
deliberate  voice,  without  taking  my  eyes  from  her ; 
"  afterward,  in  Russia,  in  the  ***  Government, 
in  the  hamlet  of  Mikhailovskoe,  on  June  22, 
184*."  .... 

I  said  all  this  in  French.  She  recoiled  a  little, 
scanned  me  from  head  to  foot  with  a  look  of 

1  "  I  am  a  picture  of  sorrow, 
Leaoing  against  the  wall." 

191 


THREE   MEETINGS 

amazement,   and   whispering,   "  Venez"  swiftly 
left  the  room.     I  followed  her. 

We  walked  on  in  silence.  It  is  beyond  my 
power  to  express  what  I  felt  as  I  walked  side  by 
side  with  her.  It  was  as  though  a  very  beautiful 
dream  had  suddenly  become  reality  ...  as  though 
the  statue  of  Galatea  had  descended  as  a  living 
woman  from  its  pedestal  in  the  sight  of  the 
swooning  Pygmalion.  ...  I  could  not  believe 
it,  I  could  hardly  breathe. 

We  traversed  several  rooms.  .  .  .  At  last,  in 
one  of  them,  she  paused  in  front  of  a  small  divan 
near  the  window,  and  seated  herself.  I  sat  down 
beside  her. 

She  slowly  turned  her  head  toward  me,  and 
looked  intently  at  me. 

"  Do  you  ....  do  you  come  from  him?  "  she 
said. 

Her  voice  was  weak  and  unsteady.  .  . 

Her  question  somewhat  disconcerted  me. 

"  No  ....  not  from  him,"— I  replied  hall" 
ingly. 

"  Do  you  know  him?  " 

"  Yes," — I  replied,  with  mysterious  solemnity. 
I  лvanted  to  keep  up  my  role. — "  Yes,  I  know 
him." 

She  looked  distrustfully  at  me,  started  to  say 
something,  and  dropped  her  eyes. 

"  You  were  waiting  for  him  in  Sorrento," — I 
went  on; — "  you  met  him  at  Mikhailovskoe,  you 
rode  on  horseback  with  him.  .  .  ." 

192 


THREE   MEETINGS 

"  How  could  3^011  .  .  .  ."  she  began. 

"  I  know  ...  I  know  all.  .  .  ." 

"  Your  face  seems  familiar  to  me,  somehow," — 
she  continued: — "but  no  .  .  .  ." 

"  No,  I  am  a  stranger  to  you." 

"  Then  what  is  it  that  you  want?  " 

"  I  know  that  also," — I  persisted. 

I  understood  very  well  that  I  must  take  advan- 
tage of  the  excellent  beginning  to  go  further, 
that  my  repetitions  of  "  I  know  all,  I  know," 
were  becoming  ridiculous — but  my  agitation  was 
so  great,  that  unexpected  meeting  had  thrown  me 
into  such  confusion,  I  had  lost  my  self-control  to 
such  a  degree  that  I  positively  was  unable  to  say 
anything  else.  Moreover,  I  really  knew  nothing 
more.  I  felt  conscious  that  I  was  talking  non- 
sense, felt  conscious  that,  from  the  mysterious, 
omniscient  being  which  I  must  at  first  appear  to 
her  to  be,  I  should  soon  be  converted  into  a  sort 
of  grinning  fool  ....  but  there  was  no  help 
for  it. 

"  Yes,  I  know  all," — I  muttered  once  more. 

She  darted  a  glance  at  me,  rose  quickly  to  her 
feet,  and  was  on  the  point  of  departing. 

But  this  was  too  cruel.    I  seized  her  hand. 

"  For  God's  sake," — I  began, — "  sit  down, 
listen  to  me.  ..." 

She  reflected,  and  seated  herself. 

"  I  just  told  you," — I  went  on  fervently, — 
"  that  I  knew  everything — that  is  nonsense.  I 
know  nothing;  I  do  not  know  either  who  you 

193 


THREE   MEETINGS 

are,  or  who  he  is,  and  if  I  have  been  able  to  sur- 
prise you  by  what  I  said  to  you  a  while  ago  by 
the  column,  you  must  ascribe  that  to  chance  alone, 
to  a  strange,  incomprehensible  chance,  which,  as 
though  in  derision,  has  brought  me  in  contact  with 
you  twice,  and  almost  in  identically  the  same  way 
on  both  occasions,  and  has  made  me  the  involun- 
tary witness  of  that  which,  perhaps,  you  would 
like  to  keep  secret.  ..." 

And  thereupon,  without  the  slightest  circumlo- 
cution, I  related  to  her  everything:  my  meet- 
ings with  her  in  Sorrento,  in  Russia,  my  futile 
inquiries  in  Mikhailovskoe,  even  my  conversa- 
tion in  Moscow  with  Madame  ShlykofF  and  her 
sister. 

"  Now  j^ou  know  everything," — I  went  on, 
when  I  had  finished  my  story.  —  "  I  will  not  under- 
take to  describe  to  you  what  an  overwhelming  im- 
pression you  made  on  me:  to  see  you  and  not 
to  be  bewitched  by  you  is  impossible.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  is  no  need  for  me  to  tell  you 
what  the  nature  of  that  impression  was.  Re- 
member under  what  conditions  I  beheld  you  both 
times.  .  .  .  Believe  me,  I  am  not  fond  of  indulg- 
ing in  senseless  hopes,  but  j^u  must  understand 
also  that  inexpressible  agitation  which  has  seized 
upon  me  to-day,  and  you  must  pardon  the  awk- 
ward artifice  to  which  I  decided  to  have  recourse 
in  order  to  attract  your  attention,  if  only  for  a 
moment  .  .  .  ." 

194 


THREE   MEETINGS 

She  listened  to  my  confused  explanations  with- 
out raising  her  head. 

"  What  do  you  want  of  me?  " — she  said  at  last. 

"I?  ...  I  want  nothing  ...  I  am  happy 
as  I  am.  ...  I  have  too  much  respect  for  such 
secrets." 

"Really?  But,  up  to  this  point,  apparently 
....  However," — she  went  on, — "  I  will  not  re- 
proach you.  Any  man  would  have  done  the  same 
in  your  place.  Moreover,  chance  really  has 
brought  us  together  so  persistently  .  .  .  that 
лvould  seem  to  give  you  a  certain  right  to  frank- 
ness on  my  part.  Listen:  I  am  not  one  of  those 
uncomprehended  and  unhappy  women  who  go 
to  masquerades  for  the  sake  of  chattering  to  the 
first  man  they  meet  about  their  sufferings,  who 
require  hearts  filled  with  sympathy.  ...  I  re- 
quire sympathy  from  no  one;  my  own  heart  is 
dead,  and  I  have  come  hither  in  order  to  bury 
it  definitively." 

She  raised  a  handkerchief  to  her  lips. 

"  I  hope  " — she  went  on  with  a  certain  amount 
of  effort—"  that  you  do  not  take  my  words  for 
the  ordinary  effusions  of  a  masquerade.  You 
must  understand  that  I  am  in  no  mood  for 
that.  .  .  ." 

And,  in  truth,  there  was  something  terrible  in 
her  voice,  despite  all  the  softness  of  its  tones. 

"  I  am  a  Russian," — she  said  in  Russian; — up 
to  that  point  she  had  expressed  herself  in  the 

195 


THREE   MEETINGS 

French  language: — "  although  I  have  lived  little 
in  Russia.  ...  It  is  not  necessary  for  me  to 
know  your  name.  Anna  Feodorovna  is  an  old 
friend  of  mine ;  I  really  did  go  to  Mikhailovskoe 
under  the  name  of  her  sister.  .  .  It  was  impos- 
sible at  that  time  for  me  to  meet  him  openly.  .  . 
And  even  without  that,  rumours  had  begun  to 
circulate  ...  at  that  time,  obstacles  still  existed 
— he  was  not  free.  .  .  Those  obstacles  have  dis- 
appeared .  .  .  but  he  whose  name  should  become 
mine,  he  with  whom  you  saw  me,  has  abandoned 
me. 

She  made  a  gesture  with  her  hand,  and  paused 
awhile.  ... 

"  You  really  do  not  know  him?  You  have  not 
met  him?  " 

"  Not  once." 

"  He  has  spent  almost  all  this  time  abroad.  But 
he  is  here  now.  .  .  .  That  is  my  whole  history," 
— she  added; — "  you  see,  there  is  nothing  myste- 
rious about  it,  nothing  peculiar." 

"  And  Sorrento?  " — I  timidly  interposed. 

"  I  made  his  acquaintance  in  Sorrento," — she 
answered  slowly,  becoming  pensive. 

Both  of  us  held  our  peace.  A  strange  dis- 
composure took  possession  of  me.  I  was  sitting 
beside  her,  beside  that  woman  лvhose  image  had 
so  often  flitted  through  my  dreams,  had  so  tor- 
turingly  agitated  and  irritated  me,— I  was  sit- 
ting beside  her  and  felt  a  cold  and  a  weight  at 

196 


THREE   MEETINGS 

my  heart.  I  knew  that  nothing  would  come  of 
that  meeting,  that  between  her  and  me  there  was 
a  gulf,  that  when  we  parted  we  should  part  for- 
ever. With  her  head  bowed  forward  and  both 
hands  lying  in  her  lap,  she  sat  there  indifferent 
and  careless.  I  know  that  carelessness  of  incur- 
able grief,  I  know  that  indifference  of  irrecover- 
able happiness!  The  masks  strolled  past  us  in 
couples ;  the  sounds  of  the  "  monotonous  and 
senseless  "  waltz  now  reverberated  dully  in  the 
distance,  now  were  wafted  by  in  sharp  gusts ;  the 
merry  ball-music  agitated  me  heavily  and  mourn- 
fully. "  Can  it  be,"— I  thought,—"  that  this  wo- 
man is  the  same  who  appeared  to  me  once  on  a 
time  in  the  window  of  that  little  country  house 
far  away,  in  all  the  splendour  of  triumphant 
beauty?  .  .  .  ."  And  yet,  time  seemed  not  to 
have  touched  her.  The  lower  part  of  her  face,  un- 
concealed by  the  lace  of  her  mask,  was  of  almost 
childish  delicacy;  but  a  chill  emanated  from  her, 
as  from  a  statue.  .  .  .  Galatea  had  returned  to 
her  pedestal,  and  would  descend  from  it  no  more. 

Suddenly  she  drew  herself  up,  darted  a  glance 
into  the  next  room,  and  rose. 

"  Give  me  your  arm," — she  said  to  me.  "  Let  us 
go  away  quickly,  quickly." 

We  returned  to  the  ball-room.  She  walked  so 
fast  that  I  could  barely  keep  up  with  her.  She 
came  to  a  standstill  beside  one  of  the  columns. 

"  Let  us  wait  here," — she  whispered. 

197 


THREE   MEETINGS 

"  Are  you  looking  for  any  one?  " — I  began. . . . 

But  she  paid  no  heed  to  me :  her  eager  gaze  was 
fixed  upon  the  crowd.  Languidly  and  menacingly 
did  her  great  black  eyes  look  forth  from  beneath 
the  black  velvet. 

I  turned  in  the  direction  of  her  gaze  and  un- 
derstood everything.  Along  the  corridor  formed 
by  the  row  of  columns  and  the  wall,  he  was  walk- 
ing, that  man  whom  I  had  met  with  her  in  the  for- 
est. I  recognised  him  instantly:  he  had  hardly 
changed  at  all.  His  golden-brown  moustache 
curled  as  handsomely  as  ever,  his  brown  eyes 
beamed  with  the  same  calm  and  self-confident 
cheerfulness  as  of  yore.  He  was  walking  without 
haste,  and,  lightly  bending  his  slender  figure,  was 
narrating  something  to  a  woman  in  a  domino, 
whose  arm  was  linked  in  his.  As  he  came  on  a 
level  with  us,  he  suddenly  raised  his  head,  looked 
first  at  me,  then  at  the  woman  with  whom  I  was 
standing,  and  probably  recognised  her  eyes,  for 
his  eyebrows  quivered  slightly, — he  screwed  up 
his  eyes,  and  a  barely  perceptible,  but  intolerably 
insolent  smile  hovered  over  his  lips.  He  bent 
down  to  his  companion,  and  whispered  a  couple 
of  words  in  her  ear;  she  immediately  glanced 
round,  her  blue  eyes  hastily  scanned  us  both,  and 
with  a  soft  laugh  she  menaced  him  with  her  little 
hand.  He  slightly  shrugged  one  shoulder,  she 
nestled  up  to  him  coquettishly.  .  .  . 

I  turned  to  my  Unknown.  She  was  gazing 
198 


THREE   MEETINGS 

after  the  receding  pair,  and  suddenly,  tearing  her 
arm  from  mine,  she  rushed  toward  the  door.  I 
was  about  to  dash  after  her;  but  turning  round, 
she  gave  me  such  a  look  that  I  made  her  a  pro- 
found Ьолу,  and  remained  where  I  was.  I  under- 
stood that  to  pursue  her  would  be  both  rude  and 
stupid. 

"  Tell  me,  please,  my  dear  fellow,"— I  said, 
half  an  hour  later,  to  one  of  my  friends— the 
living  directory  of  Petersburg: — "who  is  that 
tall,  handsome  gentleman  with  a  moustache?  " 

"  That?  .  .  .  that  is  some  foreigner  or  other, 
a  rather  enigmatic  individual,  who  very  rarely 
makes  his  appearance  on  our  horizon.  Why  do 
you  ask? " 

"Oh,  because!"  .... 

I  returned  home.  Since  that  time  I  have  never 
met  my  Unknown  anywhere.  Had  I  known  the 
name  of  the  man  whom  she  loved,  I  might,  prob- 
ably, have  found  out,  eventually,  who  she  was, 
but  I  myself  did  not  desire  that.  I  have  said 
above  that  that  woman  appeared  to  me  like  a 
dream-vision— and  like  a  dream- vision  she  went 
past  and  vanished  forever. 


199 


MUMtJ 

(1852) 


мими 

IN  one  of  the  remote  streets  of  Moscow,  in  a 
grey  house  with  white  pillars,  an  entresol,  and 
a  crooked  balcony,  dwelt  in  former  days  a  well- 
born lady,  a  widow,  surrounded  by  numerous  do- 
mestics. Her  sons  were  in  the  service  in  Peters- 
burg, her  daughters  were  married;  she  rarely 
went  out  into  society,  and  was  living  out  the  last 
years  of  a  miserly  and  tedious  old  age  in  solitude. 
Her  day,  cheerless  and  stormy,  was  long  since 
over ;  but  her  evening  also  was  blacker  than  night. 
Among  the  ranks  of  her  menials,  the  most  re- 
markable person  was  the  yard-porter,  Gerasim, 
a  man  six  feet  five  inches  in  height,  built  like  an 
epic  hero,  and  a  deaf-mute  from  his  birth.  His 
mistress  had  taken  him  from  the  village,  where 
he  lived  alone,  in  a  tiny  cottage,  apart  from  his 
brethren,  and  was  considered  the  most  punctual 
of  the  taxable  serfs.  Endowed  with  remarkable 
strength,  he  did  the  work  of  four  persons.  Mat- 
ters made  progress  in  his  hands,  and  it  was  a 
cheerful  sight  to  watch  him  when  he  ploughed 
and,  applying  his  huge  hands  to  the  primitive 
plough,  seemed  to  be  carving  open  the  elastic 

203 


мими 

bosom  of  the  earth  alone,  without  the  aid  of 
his  Httle  nag ;  or  about  St.  Peter's  Day  ^  wield- 
ing the  scythe  so  shatteringly  that  he  might 
even  have  hewn  off  a  young  birch-wood  from  its 
roots;  or  threshing  briskly  and  unremittingly 
with  a  chain  seven  feet  in  length,  while  the  firm, 
oblong  muscles  on  his  shoulders  rose  and  fell  like 
levers.  His  uninterrupted  muteness  imparted  to 
his  indefatigable  labour  a  grave  solemnity.  He 
was  a  splendid  peasant,  and  had  it  not  been  for 
his  infirmity,  any  maiden  would  willingly  have 
married  him.  .  .  .  But  Gerasim  was  brought  to 
Moscow,  boots  were  bought  for  him,  a  broom  and 
a  shovel  were  put  into  his  hand,  and  he  was  ap- 
pointed to  be  the  yard-porter. 

At  first  he  felt  a  violent  dislike  for  his  new 
life.  From  his  childhood  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  field-labour,  to  country  life.  Set  apart  by  his 
infirmity  from  communion  with  his  fellow-men, 
he  had  grown  up  dumb  and  mighty,  as  a  tree 
grows  on  fruitful  soil.  .  .  .  Transported  to  the 
town,  he  did  not  understand  what  was  happening 
to  him;— he  felt  bored  and  puzzled,  as  a  healthy 
young  bull  is  puzzled  when  he  has  just  been  taken 
from  the  pasture,  where  the  grass  grew  up  to  his 
belly,— when  he  has  been  taken,  and  placed  in  a 
railway -wagon,— and,  lo,  with  his  robust  body  en- 
veloped now  with  smoke  and  sparks,  again  with 
billows  of  steam,  he  is  drawn  headlong  onward, 

1  June  29  (O.  S.)— July  13  (N.  S.).— Translator. 

204< 


MUMtr 

drawn  with  rumble  and  squeaking,  and  whither 
— God  only  knows!  Gerasim's  occupations  in  his 
new  employment  seemed  to  him  a  mere  farce 
after  his  onerous  labours  as  a  peasant ;  in  half  an 
hour  he  had  finished  everything,  and  he  was 
again  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  courtyard  and 
staring,  open-mouthed,  at  all  the  passers-by,  as 
though  desirous  of  obtaining  from  them  the  so- 
lution of  his  enigmatic  situation;  or  he  would 
suddenly  go  off  to  some  corner  and,  flinging  his 
broom  or  his  shovel  far  from  him,  would  throw 
himself  on  the  ground  face  downward,  and  lie 
motionless  on  his  breast  for  whole  hours  at  a  time, 
hke  a  captured  wild  beast. 

But  man  grows  accustomed  to  everything,  and 
Gerasim  got  used,  at  last,  to  town  life!  He 
had  not  much  to  do;  his  entire  duty  consisted  in 
keeping  the  courtj'^ard  clean,  fetching  a  cask  of 
water  twice  a  day,  hauling  and  chopping  up 
wood  for  the  kitchen  and  house,^  and  in  not  ad- 
mitting strangers,  and  keeping  watch  at  night. 
And  it  must  be  said  that  he  discharged  his  duty 
with  zeal;  not  a  chip  was  ever  strewn  about  his 
courtyard,  nor  any  dirt;  if  in  muddy  weather 
the  broken-winded  nag  for  hauling  water  and  the 
barrel  entrusted  to  his  care  got  stranded  any- 
where, all  he  had  to  do  was  to  apply  his  shoulder, 

1  Formerly  all  Moscow  houses  were  obliged  to  get  their  water  in 
barrels  on  wheels  from  the  river  or  from  public  fountains.  Birch- 
wood  is  still  used  for  cooking  and  heating. — Translator. 

205 


MUMlJ 

—and  not  only  the  cart,  but  the  horse  also,  would 
be  pried  from  the  spot.  If  he  undertook  to  chop 
wood,  his  axe  would  ring  like  glass,  and  splinters 
and  billets  would  fly  in  every  direction;  and  as 
for  strangers — after  he  had,  one  night,  caught 
two  thieves,  and  had  banged  their  heads  together, 
and  mauled  them  so  that  there  was  no  necessity 
for  taking  them  to  the  police-station  afterward, 
every  one  in  the  neighbourhood  began  to  respect 
him  greatly,  and  even  by  day,  passers-by  who  were 
not  in  the  least  rascals,  but  simply  strangers  to 
him,  at  the  sight  of  the  ominous  yard-porter, 
would  brandish  their  arms  as  though  in  self-de- 
fence, and  shout  at  him  as  though  he  were  able 
to  hear  their  cries. 

With  all  the  other  domestics  Gerasim  sustained 
relations  which  were  not  exactly  friendly, — they 
were  afraid  of  him,— but  gentle;  he  regarded 
them  as  members  of  the  family.  They  expressed 
their  meaning  to  him  by  signs,  and  he  under- 
stood them,  accurately  executed  all  orders,  but 
knew  his  own  rights  also,  and  no  one  dared  to 
take  his  seat  at  table.  On  the  whole,  Gerasim 
was  of  stern  and  serious  disposition,  and  was  fond 
of  orderliness  in  all  things ;  even  the  cocks  did  not 
venture  to  fight  in  his  presence— but  if  they  did, 
woe  be  to  them!  if  he  caught  sight  of  them,  he 
would  instantly  seize  them  by  the  legs,  whirl 
them  round  like  a  wheel  half  a  score  of  times  in  the 
air,  and  hurl  them  in  opposite  directions.    There 

206 


мими 

were  geese  also  in  his  lady  mistress's  courtyard, 
but  a  goose,  as  every  one  кполуз,  is  a  serious  and 
sensible  bird;  Gerasim  felt  respect  for  them, 
tended  them,  and  fed  them;  he  himself  bore  a 
resemblance  to  a  statelj^  gander. 

He  was  allotted  a  tiny  chamber  over  the 
kitchen;  he  arranged  it  himself  after  his  own 
taste,  constructed  a  bed  of  oaken  planks  on  four 
blocks — truly  a  bed  fit  for  an  epic  hero;  a  hun- 
dred puds  ^  might  have  been  loaded  upon  it, — 
it  would  not  have  given  way.  Under  the  bed 
was  a  stout  chest ;  in  one  corner  stood  a  small  table 
of  the  same  sturdy  quality,  and  beside  the  table 
a  three-legged  chair,  and  so  firm  and  squatty  that 
Gerasim  himself  would  pick  it  up,  drop  it,  and 
grin.  This  little  den  was  fastened  with  a  pad- 
lock which  suggested  a  haldtch  ^  in  shape,  only 
black ;  Gerasim  always  carried  the  key  to  this  lock 
with  him,  in  his  belt.  He  was  not  fond  of  having 
people  come  into  his  room. 

In  this  manner  a  year  passed,  at  the  end  of 
which  a  small  incident  happened  to  Gerasim. 

The  old  gentlewoman  with  whom  he  lived  as 
yard-porter  in  all  things  followed  the  ancient 
customs,  and  kept  a  numerous  train  of  domestics ; 
she  had  in  her  house  not  only  laundresses,  seam- 
stresses, carpenters,  tailors,  and  dressmakers,  but 

^  A  pud  is  about  thirty-six  pounds,  English.— Translator. 
2  A  peculiarly  shaped  and  delicious  wheaten  roll,  which  is  made 
particularly  well  in  Moscow. —Translator. 

207 


мими 

also  one  saddler,  who  set  up  to  be  a  veterinary  and 
a  medical  man  for  the  servants  as  well  (there 
was  a  house-physician  for  the  mistress),  and,  in 
conclusion,  there  was  a  shoemaker,  by  the  name 
of  Kapiton  KlimofF,  a  bitter  drunkard.  Klimoff 
regarded  himself  as  an  injured  being  and  not 
appreciated  at  his  true  value,  a  cultured  man 
used  to  the  ways  of  the  capital,  who  ought  not 
to  live  in  Moscow,  without  occupation,  in  a  sort  of 
desert  spot,  and  if  he  drank, — as  he  himself  ex- 
pressed it,  with  pauses  between  his  words,  and 
thumping  himself  on  the  breast, — he  drank  in  re- 
ality from  grief.  One  day  he  was  under  discus- 
sion by  the  mistress  and  her  head  butler,  Gavrila, 
a  man  who  would  seem,  from  his  little  yellow 
eyes  and  his  duck's-bill  nose,  to  have  been  desig- 
nated by  Fate  itself  as  a  commanding  person- 
age. The  mistress  was  complaining  about  the 
depraved  morals  of  Kapiton,  who  had  been 
picked  up  somewhere  in  the  street  only  the  night 
before. 

"Well,  Gavrila,"— she  suddenly  remarked:— 
"  shall  not  we  marry  him?  What  dost  thou  think 
about  it?    Perhaps  that  will  steady  him." 

"  Why  should  n't  we  marry  him,  ma'am?  It 
can  be  done,  ma'am," — replied  Gavrila; — "  and  it 
would  even  be  a  very  good  thing." 

"  Yes;  only  who  would  marry  him?  " 

"  Of  course,  ma'am.  However,  as  you  like, 
ma'am.    He  can  always  be  put  to  some  use,  so  to 

208 


мими 

speak;  you  would  n't  reject  him  out  of  any  ten 
men." 

"  I  think  he  hkes  Tatyana?  " 

Gavrila  was  about  to  make  some  reply,  but 
compressed  his  lips. 

"Yes!  ...  let  him  woo  Tatyana,"— the  mis- 
tress announced  her  decision,  as  she  took  a  pinch 
of  snufF  with  satisfaction: — "  dost  hear  me?  " 

"  I  obey,  ma'am," — enunciated  Gavrila,  and 
withdrew. 

On  returning  to  his  chamber  (it  was  situated 
in  a  wing,  and  was  almost  completely  filled  with 
wrought-iron  coffers) ,  Gavrila  first  sent  away  his 
wife,  and  then  seated  himself  by  the  window,  and 
became  engrossed  in  meditation.  The  mistress's 
sudden  command  had  evidently  dazed  him.  At 
last  he  rose,  and  ordered  Kapiton  to  be  called. 
Kapiton  presented  himself.  .  .  .  But  before  we 
repeat  their  conversation  to  the  reader,  we  con- 
sider it  not  superfluous  to  state,  in  a  few  words, 
who  this  Tatyana  was,  whom  Kapiton  was  to 
marry,  and  why  his  mistress's  command  had  dis- 
concerted the  major-domo. 

Tatyana,  who,  as  we  have  said  above,  served 
as  laundress  (but,  in  her  quality  of  expert  and 
well-trained  laundress,  she  was  given  only  the 
delicate  linen)  ,was  a  woman  of  eight-and-twenty, 
small,  thin,  fair-haired,  with  moles  on  her  left 
cheek.  Moles  on  the  left  cheek  are  regarded  as  a 
bad  sign  in  Russia — as  the  presage  of  an  unhappy 

209 


мими 

life.  .  .  .  Tatyana  could  not  boast  of  her  luck. 
From  early  youth  she  had  been  ill-treated;  she 
had  worked  for  two,  and  had  never  received  any 
caresses;  she  was  badly  clothed;  she  received  the 
very  smallest  of  wages;  she  had  practically  no 
relatives ;  an  old  butler  in  the  village  who  had  been 
discharged  for  uselessness  was  her  uncle,  and 
her  other  uncles  were  common  peasants, — that  is 
all.  At  one  time  she  had  been  a  beauty,  but  her 
beauty  soon  left  her.  She  was  of  extremely  meek, 
or,  to  put  it  more  accurately,  frightened  disposi- 
tion, felt  the  most  complete  indifference  for  her- 
self, and  was  deadly  afraid  of  other  people.  Her 
sole  thought  was  as  to  how  she  might  finish  her 
work  by  the  appointed  time.  She  never  talked 
with  any  one,  and  she  trembled  at  the  mere  men- 
tion of  the  mistress's  name,  although  she  hardly 
knew  her  by  sight. 

When  Gerasim  was  brought  from  the  country, 
she  almost  swooned  with  terror  at  the  sight  of  his 
huge  form,  used  all  possible  efforts  to  avoid  meet- 
ing him,  and  even  screwed  up  her  eyes  when  she 
was  obliged  to  run  past  him,  as  she  scurried  from 
the  house  to  the  laundry.  At  first,  Gerasim  paid 
no  special  attention  to  her,  then  he  began  to  laugh 
when  she  crossed  his  path ;  then  he  began  to  gaze 
at  her  with  pleasure,  and  at  last  he  never  took  his 
eyes  from  her.  Whether  he  had  taken  a  liking 
to  her  because  of  her  gentle  expression  of  coun- 
tenance, or  of  the  timidity  of  her  movements — 

210 


мими 

God  knows!  And  behold,  one  daj%  as  she  was 
making  her  way  across  the  courtyard,  cautiously 
elevating  on  her  outspread  fingers  a  starched 
wrapper  belonging  to  her  mistress  .  .  .  some  one 
suddenly  grasped  her  by  the  elbow;  she  turned 
round  and  fairly  screamed  aloud :  behind  her  stood 
Gerasim.  Laughing  stupidly,  and  bellowing  af- 
fectionately, he  was  offering  her  a  gingerbread 
cock  with  gold  tinsel  on  its  tail  and  wings.  She 
tried  to  refuse  it,  but  he  thrust  it  forcibly  straight 
into  her  hand,  nodded  his  head,  walked  away,  and, 
turning  round,  bellowed  once  more  something  of 
a  very  friendly  nature  to  her.  From  that  day 
forth  he  gave  her  no  peace;  wherever  she  went, 
he  immediately  came  to  meet  her,  smiled,  bel- 
lowed, waved  his  hands,  suddenly  drew  a  ribbon 
from  his  breast  and  thrust  it  into  her  hand,  and 
cleaned  the  dust  away  in  front  of  her  with  his 
broom. 

The  poor  girl  simply  did  not  know  how  to  take 
it  or  what  to  do.  The  whole  household  speedily 
found  out  about  the  pranks  of  the  dumb  yard- 
porter;  jeers,  jests,  stinging  remarks  showered 
down  on  Tatyana.  But  none  of  them  could  bring 
himself  to  ridicule  Gerasim;  the  latter  was  not 
fond  of  jests;  and  they  let  her  alone  in  his  pres- 
ence. Willy-nilly  the  girl  became  his  protegee. 
Like  all  deaf  and  dumb  people,  he  was  very  per- 
spicacious, and  understood  perfectly  well  when 
they  were  laughing  at  him  or  at  her.'  One  day, 

211 


мими 

at  dinner,  the  keeper  of  the  linen,  Tatyana's  chief, 
undertook,  as  the  saying  is,  to  banter  her,  and 
carried  it  to  such  a  pitch  that  the  latter,  poor 
creature,  did  not  know  where  to  look,  and  almost 
wept  with  vexation.  Gerasim  suddenly  rose  half- 
way, stretched  out  his  enormous  hand,  laid  it  on 
the  head  of  the  keeper  of  the  linen,  and  glared 
into  her  face  with  such  ferocity  that  the  latter 
fairly  bent  over  the  table.  All  fell  silent.  Gera- 
sim picked  up  his  spoon  again,  and  went  on 
eating  his  cabbage-soup.  "  Just  see  that  dumb 
devil,  that  forest  fiend!"  all  muttered  under 
their  breaths,  and  the  keeper  of  the  linen  rose 
and  went  off  to  the  maids'  room.  On  another  oc- 
casion, observing  that  Kapiton — that  same  Kapi- 
ton  of  whom  we  have  just  been  speaking — was 
chatting  in  rather  too  friendly  a  manner  with  Ta- 
tyana,  Gerasim  beckoned  the  man  to  him,  led  him 
away  to  the  carriage-house,  and  seizing  by  its  end 
a  shaft  which  was  standing  in  the  corner,  he  men- 
aced him  slightly  but  significantly  with  it.  From 
that  time  forth  no  one  dared  to  address  a  word 
to  Tatyana.  And  all  this  ran  smoothly  in  his 
hands.  No  sooner  had  the  linen-keeper,  it  is  true, 
run  into  the  maids'  hall  than  she  fell  down  in  a 
swoon,  and  altogether  behaved  in  such  an  artful 
manner,  that  on  that  very  same  day  she  brought 
to  the  knowledge  of  the  mistress  Gerasim's  rude 
behaviour;  but  the  capricious  old  lady  merely 
laughed  several  times,  to  the  extreme  offence  of 

212 


мими 

her  linen-keeper,  made  her  repeat,  "  What  didst 
thou  say  ?  Did  he  bend  thee  down  with  his  heavy 
hand?"  and  on  the  following  day  sent  a  silver 
ruble  to  Gerasim.  She  favoured  him  as  a  faithful 
and  powerful  watcliman.  Gerasim  held  her  in 
decided  awe,  but,  nevertheless,  he  trusted  in  her 
graciousness,  and  was  making  ready  to  betake 
himself  to  her  with  the  request  that  she  would 
permit  him  to  marry  Tatyana.  He  was  only 
waiting  for  the  new  kaftan  promised  him  by  the 
major-domo,  in  order  that  he  might  present  him- 
self before  his  mistress  in  decent  shape,  when  sud- 
denly this  same  mistress  took  into  her  head  the 
idea  of  marrying  Tatyana  to  Kapiton. 

The  reader  will  now  be  able  readily  to  under- 
stand the  cause  of  the  perturbation  which  seized 
upon  Gavrila,  the  major-domo,  after  his  conver- 
sation with  his  mistress.  "  The  mistress," — he 
thought,  as  he  sat  by  the  window, — "  of  course, 
favours  Gerasim  "  (this  was  well  known  to  Ga- 
vrila, and  therefore  he  also  showed  indulgence 
to  him)  ;  "  still,  he  is  a  dumb  brute.  I  can't  in- 
form the  mistress  that  Gerasim  is  courting  Ta- 
tyana. And,  after  all,  't  is  just;  what  sort  of  a 
husband  is  he  ?  And,  on  the  other  hand.  Lord  for- 
give! for  just  as  soon  as  that  forest  fiend  finds 
out  that  Tatyana  is  to  be  married  to  Kapiton, 
he  '11  smash  everything  in  the  house,  by  Heaven 
he  will!  For  you  can't  reason  with  him — you 
can't  prevail  upon  him,  the  devil  that  he  is,  in  any 

213 


мими 

way  whatsoever — sinful  man  that  I  am  to  haxe 
said  so  wicked  a  thing  ....  that  's  so! "  .  .  .  . 

The  appearance  of  Kapiton  broke  the  thread 
of  Ga\a*ila's  meditations.  The  giddj^-pated  shoe- 
maker entered,  threw  his  hands  behind  him,  and, 
leaning  up  against  a  projecting  corner  of  the 
wall  near  the  door,  in  a  free-and-easy  way  he 
stuck  his  right  leg  crosswise  in  front  of  the  left 
and  shook  his  head,  as  much  as  to  say:  "  Here  I 
am.     What  's  your  will?  " 

Gavrila  looked  at  Kapiton  and  began  to  drum 
on  the  jamb  of  the  window  with  his  fingers. 
Kapiton  merely  narrowed  his  leaden  eyes  a  bit, 
but  did  not  lower  them,  even  smiled  slightly  and 
passed  his  hand  over  his  whitish  hair,  which  stood 
out  in  disarray  in  all  directions,  as  much  as  to  say : 
"  Well,  yes,  't  is  I.    What  are  you  staring  for?  " 

"  Good," — said  Gavrfla,  and  paused  for  a 
space. 

"  Thou  'rt  a  nice  one," — remarked  Gavrila,  and 
paused  awhile. — "  A  nice  person,  there  's  no  de- 
nying that!  " 

Kapiton  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  And 
art  thou  any  better,  pray?  "  he  said  to  himself. 

"  Come,  now,  just  look  at  thyself;  come,  look," 
— went  on  Gavrila  reprovingly; — "  Well,  art  not 
thou  ashamed  of  thyself?  " 

Kapiton  surveyed  with  a  calm  glance  his 
threadbare  and  tattered  coat  and  his  patched 
trousers,   scanned  with  particular  attention  his 

214 


мими 

shoes  perforated  with  holes,  especially  the  one 
on  whose  toe  his  right  foot  rested  in  so  dandified 
a  manner,  and  again  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  major- 
domo. 

"Whatof  it,  sir?" 

"  AVhat  of  it,  sir?  "—repeated  Gavrila.— 
"  What  of  it,  sir?  And  thou  sayest: '  What  of  it, 
sir? '  to  boot!  Thou  lookest  like  the  devil, — Lord 
forgive  me,  sinful  man  that  I  am, — that  's  what 
thou  lookest  like." 

Kapiton  winked  his  little  eyes  briskly. 

"  Curse  away,  curse  away,  Gavrfla  Andreitch," 
he  thought  to  himself. 

"  Thou  hast  been  drunk  again,  apparently," — 
began  Gavrila; — "drunk  again,  surely?  Hey? 
Come,  answer." 

"  Owing  to  the  feebleness  of  my  health,  I  have 
succumbed  to  spirituous  beverages,  in  fact," — 
returned  Kapiton. 

"  Owing  to  feebleness  of  health?  ....  Thou 
art  not  whipped  enough,  that  's  what;  and  thou 
hast  served  thine  apprenticeship  in  Peter  ^  to  boot. 
.  .  .  Much  thou  didst  learn  in  thine  apprentice- 
ship! Thou  dost  nothing  but  eat  the  bread  of 
idleness." 

"  In  that  case,  Gavrfla  Andreitch,  I  have  but 
one  judge,— the  Lord  God  Himself,  and  no  one 
else.  He  alone  knows  what  sort  of  a  man  I  am 
in  this  world,  and  whether  I  really  do  eat  the  bread 

^  St.  Petersburg.  —Translator. 

215 


мими 

of  idleness.  And  as  for  thy  reflections  concern- 
ing" drunkenness, — in  that  case  also  I  am  not  to 
blame,  but  rather  one  of  my  comrades;  for  he 
led  me  astray,  and  after  he  had  accomplished  his 
crafty  purpose,  he  went  away;  that  is  to  say, 
I . . . ." 

"  And  thou  didst  remain  behind,  thou  goose,  in 
the  street.  Akh,  thou  dissolute  man!  Well,  but 
that  's  not  the  point," — went  on  the  major-domo, 
— "  but  this.  The  mistress  .  .  .  ."  here  he 
paused  for  a  moment, — "it  is  the  mistress's 
pleasure  that  thou  shouldst  marry.  Hearest 
thou?  She  thinks  that  thou  wilt  grow  steady 
when  thou  art  married.    Dost  understand?  " 

"  How  can  I  help  understanding,  sir?  " 

"  Well,  yes.  In  my  opinion,  't  would  be  better 
to  take  thee  firmly  in  hand.  Well,  but  that  's  her 
aifair.    How  now?    Dost  thou  consent?  " 

Kapiton  displayed  his  teeth  in  a  grin. 

"  Marriage  is  a  good  thing  for  a  man,  Gavrila 
Andreitch;  and  I,  on  my  part,  agree  with  very 
great  pleasure." 

"  Well,  yes,"— returned  Gavrila,  and  thought 
to  himself :—"  there  's  no  denying  it,  the  man 
talks  with  exactness."—"  Only,  see  here,"— he 
went  on,  aloud:—"  an  inconvenient  bride  has  been 
picked  out  for  thee." 

"  Who  is  she,  permit  me  to  inquire?  "... 

"  Tatyana." 

"  Tatyana?  " 

216 


мими 

And  Kapiton's  eyes  fairly  popped  out  of  his 
head,  and  he  started  away  from  the  wall. 

"  Well,  what  art  thou  scared  at?  ...  Is  n't 
she  to  thy  taste?  " 

"  To  my  taste,  forsooth,  Gavrila  Andreitch! 
The  girl  herself  is  all  right ;  she  's  a  good  worker, 
a  meek  lass.  .  .  .  But  you  know  yourself,  Ga- 
vrila Andreitch,  that  that  forest  fiend,  that  spec- 
tre of  the  steppes,  is  courting  her,  you  know  . . . ." 

"  I  know,  brother,  I  know  all,"— the  major- 
domo  interrupted  him,  with  vexation: — "but, 
seest  thou  .  .  .  ." 

"  But,  good  gracious,  Gavrfla  Andreitch!  why, 
he  '11  murder  me;  by  Heaven,  he  '11  murder  me, 
he  '11  mash  me  like  a  fly!  Why,  he  has  a  hand — 
just  look  for  yourself  what  a  hand  he  has;  why, 
he  simply  has  the  hand  of  Minin  and  Pozharsky.^ 
For  he  's  deaf,  he  '11  kill  me,  and  not  hear  that 
he  is  killing !  He  flourishes  his  huge  fists  exactly 
as  though  he  were  asleep.  And  there  's  no  pos- 
sibility of  stopping  him.  Why?  Because,  you 
know  yourself,  Gavrila  Andreitch,  he  's  deaf, 
and  stupid  as  an  owl  into  the  bargain.  Why,  he  's 
a  sort  of  Avild  beast,  a  heathen  idol,  Gavrfla  An- 
dreitch,— worse  than  an  idol  ...  he  's  a  sort  of 
aspen-block;  why  should  I  now  suffer  from  him? 

^  Mfnin,  the  burgher  of  Nizhni  Novgorod,  and  Prince  Pozh^rsky, 
who  led  the  Russians  against  the  invading  Poles  in  1612,  and  expelled 
them  from  Russia.  Their  expulsion  was  followed  by  the  election  to 
the  throne  of  the  first  Romanoff  Tzar,  Mikhail  Feddorovitch.— Trans- 
lator. 

217 


мими 

Of  course  nothing  matters  to  me  now ;  I  have  en- 
dured, I  have  practised  patience,  I  have  smeared 
myself  with  oil  like  a  glazed  Kolomna  jug,— all 
the  same,  I  'm  a  man,  and  not  some  sort  of  insig- 
nificant jug,  as  a  matter  of  fact." 

"  I  know,  I  know;  don't  give  a  description.  . . ." 

"  О  Lord,  my  God!  " — went  on  the  shoemaker, 
hotly:— "when  will  the  end  come?  When,  О 
Lord !  I  'm  a  miserable  wretch,  a  hopeless  wretch. 
'T  is  fate,  my  fate,  when  you  come  to  think  of 
it!  In  my  younger  years  I  was  thrashed  by  a 
German  master;  in  the  best  period  of  my  Hfe 
I  was  beaten  by  my  own  brother;  and  at  last,  in 
my  riper  years,  to  what  have  I  come?  .  .  ." 

"  Ekh,  limp  linden-bast  soul!  " — said  Gavrila. 
— "  Why  dost  thou  dilate  on  the  matter,  really, 
nowf 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  why,'  Gavrfla  Andre- 
itch?  I  'm  not  afraid  of  blows,  Gavrila  Andre- 
itch.  Let  the  master  thrash  me  within  doors,  but 
give  me  a  greeting  before  folks,  and  still  I  'm 
numbered  among  men;  but  in  this  case,  from 
whom  must  I  .  .  .  ." 

"Come,  now,  begone!" — Gavrila  interrupted 
him,  impatiently. 

Kapiton  turned  and  took  himself  off. 

"  And  supposing  there  were  no  question  of 
him,"— shouted  the  major-domo  after  him; — 
"  dost  thou  consent?  " 

218 


мими 

"  I  announce  my  assent," — replied  Kapiton, 
and  lurched  out  of  the  room. 

His  eloquence  did  not  abandon  him  even  in  ex- 
tremities. 

The  major-domo  paced  the  length  of  the  room 
several  times. 

"  Well,  now  summon  Tatyana," — he  said  at 
last. 

In  a  few  moments  Tatyana  entered  almost  in- 
audibly,  and  halted  on  the  threshold. 

"  What  is  your  command,  Gavrila  Andreitch?  " 
— she  said  in  a  quiet  voice. 

The  major-domo  gazed  fixedly  at  her. 

"  Come," — said  he, — "  Taniusha,  wouldst  thou 
like  to  marry?  The  mistress  has  hunted  up  a 
bridegroom  for  thee." 

"  I  obey,  Gavrila  Andreitch.  But  who  has 
been  appointed  as  my  bridegroom?  " — she  added 
with  hesitation. 

"  Kapiton,  the  shoemaker." 

"  I  obey,  sir." 

"  He  is  a  reckless  man — that  's  a  fact.  But 
the  mistress  pins  her  hopes  on  thee  in  that  re- 
spect." 

"  I  obey,  sir." 

"  It  's  a  pity  about  one  thing:  ....  there  's 
that  deaf  man,  Garaska,  who  's  paying  court  to 
thee.  And  how  hast  thou  bewitched  that  bear?  I 
do  believe  he  '11  kill  thee,  the  bear  that  he  is.  .  .  ." 

219 


мими 

"  Не  will,  Gavrila  Andreitch,  he  '11  infallibly 
kill  me." 

"  He  will.  .  .  .  Well,  we  '11  see  about  that. 
What  makes  thee  say,  '  He  '11  kill  me  '  ?  Has  he 
the  right  to  kill  thee,  pray?    Judge  for  thyself." 

"  Why,  I  don't  know,  Gavrila  Andreitch,  whe- 
ther he  has  a  right  or  not." 

"  What  a  girl!  I  suppose  thou  hast  not  made 
him  any  promise.  ..." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir? " 

The  major-domo  paused  for  a  while,  and 
thought : 

"Thou  art  a  meek  soul!" — "Well,  very 
good," — he  added;  "we  will  have  another  talk 
about  it,  and  now,  go  thy  way,  Tatyana;  I  see 
that  thou  really  art  an  obedient  girl." 

Tatyana  turned,  leaned  lightly  against  the 
door- jamb,  and  left  the  room. 

"  But  perhaps  the  mistress  will  have  forgotten 
about  this  wedding  by  to-morrow," — meditated 
the  major-domo.  "Why  have  I  been  alarmed? 
We  '11  pinion  that  insolent  fellow  if  he  makes 
any  trouble — we  '11  send  word  to  the  police.  .  .  . 
Ustinya  Feodorovna!" — he  shouted  in  a  loud 
voice  to  his  wife,  "  prepare  the  samovar,  my  good 
woman.  .  .  ." 

All  that  day,  Tatyana  hardly  quitted  the  laun- 
dry. At  first  she  wept,  then  she  wiped  away  her 
tears,  and  set  to  work  as  of  yore.  Kapiton  sat  un- 
til the  dead  of  night  in  a  drinking  establishment 

220 


мими 

with  а  friend  of  gloomy  aspect,  and  narrated  to 
him  in  detail  how  he  had  lived  in  Peter  with  a 
certain  gentleman  who  had  everything  that  heart 
could  desire,  and  was  a  great  stickler  for  order, 
and  withal  permitted  himself  one  little  dehn- 
quency :  he  was  wont  to  get  awfully  fuddled,  and 
as  for  the  feminine  sex,  he  simply  had  all  the 
qualities  to  attract.  .  .  His  gloomy  comrade 
merely  expressed  assent;  but  when  Kapiton  an- 
nounced, at  last,  that,  owing  to  certain  circum- 
stances, he  must  lay  violent  hands  upon  himself 
on  the  morrow,  the  gloomy  comrade  remarked 
that  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed.  And  they  parted 
churlishly,  and  in  silence. 

In  the  meantime,  the  major-domo's  expecta- 
tions were  not  reahsed.  The  idea  of  Kapiton's 
wedding  had  so  captivated  the  mistress,  that  even 
during  the  night  she  had  talked  of  nothing  else 
with  one  of  her  companions,  whom  she  kept  in  the 
house  solely  in  case  of  sleeplessness,  and  who, 
like  night  cabmen,  slept  by  day.  ЛУЬеп  Gavrila 
entered  her  room  after  tea  with  his  report,  her 
first  question  was : 

"  And  how  about  our  wedding?  " 

He  replied,  of  course,  that  it  was  progressing 
famously,  and  that  Kapiton  would  present  him- 
self to  her  that  same  day  to  thank  her. 

The  mistress  was  slightly  indisposed;  she  did 
not  occupy  herself  long  with  business.  The 
major-domo  returned  to  his  own  room  and  called 

221 


мими 

а  council.  The  matter  really  did  require  partic- 
ular  consideration.  Tatyana  did  not  make  any 
objection,  of  course;  but  Kapiton  declared,  in  the 
hearing  of  all,  that  he  had  but  one  head,  and  not 
two  or  three  heads.  .  .  .  Gerasim  gazed  surlily 
and  swiftly  at  everybody,  never  left  the  maids' 
porch,  and,  apparently,  divined  that  something 
unpleasant  for  him  was  brewing.  The  assembled 
company  (among  them  was  present  the  old  butler, 
nicknamed  Uncle  Tail,  to  whom  all  respectfully 
turned  for  advice,  although  all  they  heard  from 
him  was  "  Yes!  yes!  yes!  yes!  ")  began,  by  way 
of  precaution,  for  safety,  by  locking  Kapiton  up 
in  the  lumber-room  with  the  filtering-machine 
and  set  to  thinking  hard.  Of  course,  it  was  easy 
to  resort  to  force;  but  God  forbid!  there  would 
be  a  row,  the  mistress  would  get  uneasy— and  a 
calamity  would  ensue!    What  was  to  be  done? 

They  thought  and  thought,  and  eventually  they 
hit  upon  something.  It  had  been  repeatedly  no- 
ticed that  Gerasim  could  not  abide  intoxicated 
persons.  .  .  .  As  he  sat  at  the  gate,  he  turned 
away  angrily  whenever  any  man  with  a  load  of 
drink  aboard  passed  him  with  unsteady  steps,  and 
the  visor  of  his  cap  over  his  ear.  They  decided 
to  instruct  Tatyana  to  pretend  to  be  intoxicated, 
and  to  walk  past  Gerasim  reeling  and  staggering. 
The  poor  girl  would  not  consent  for  a  long  time, 
but  they  prevailed  upon  her;  moreover,  she  her- 
self saw  that  otherwise  she  would  not  be  able  to 

222 


мими 

get  rid  of  her  adorer.  She  did  it.  Kapiton  was 
released  from  the  lumber-room;  the  affair  con- 
cerned him,  anyhow.  Gerasim  was  sitting  on  the 
guard-stone  at  the  gate  and  jabbing  the  ground 
with  his  shovel.  .  .  .  There  were  people  staring 
at  him  from  round  all  the  corners,  from  behind 
the  window-shades.  .  .  . 

The  ruse  was  completely  successful.  When 
first  he  caught  sight  of  Tatyana,  he  nodded  his 
head  with  an  affectionate  bellow;  then  he  took 
a  closer  look,  dropped  his  shovel,  sprang  to  his 
feet,  stepped  up  to  her,  put  his  face  close  down 
to  her  face.  .  .  She  reeled  worse  than  ever  with 
terror,  and  closed  her  eyes.  .  .  .  He  seized  her  by 
the  arm,  dashed  the  whole  length  of  the  courtyard, 
and  entering  the  room  where  the  council  was  in 
session  with  her,  he  thrust  her  straight  at  Kapiton. 
Tatyana  was  fairly  swooning.  .  .  .  Gerasim  stood 
there,  glared  at  her,  waved  his  hand,  laughed,  and 
departed,  clumping  heavily  to  his  little  den.  .  .  . 
For  four-and-twenty  hours  he  did  not  emerge 
thence.  Antipka,  the  postilion,  related  afterward 
how,  peeping  through  a  crack,  he  had  beheld 
.Gerasim  seated  on  his  bed,  with  his  head  resting 
on  his  hand,  quietly,  peaceably,  and  only  bellow- 
ing from  time  to  time;  then  he  would  rock  him- 
self to  and  fro,  cover  his  eyes,  and  shake  his 
head,  as  postilions  or  stevedores  do  when  they 
strike  up  their  melancholy  chanteys.  Antipka 
was  frightened,  and  he  retreated  from  the  crack. 

223 


мими 

But  when,  on  the  following  day,  Gerasim 
emerged  from  his  den,  no  particular  change  was 
noticeable  in  him.  He  merely  seemed  to  have 
become  more  surly,  and  paid  not  the  slightest  at- 
tention to  Tatyana  and  Kapiton.  On  that  same 
evening,  both  of  them,  with  geese  under  their 
arms,  wended  their  way  to  the  mistress,  and  a 
week  later  they  were  married.  On  the  wedding- 
day  itself,  Gerasim  did  not  alter  his  demeanour 
in  the  slightest  degree;  only,  he  returned  from 
the  river  without  water :  somehow,  he  had  smashed 
the  cask  on  the  road;  and  at  night,  in  the  stable, 
he  so  zealously  curried  his  horse  that  the  animal 
reeled  like  a  blade  of  grass  in  a  gale,  and  shifted 
from  foot  to  foot  under  his  iron  fists. 

All  this  took  place  in  the  spring.  Another 
j^ear  passed,  in  the  course  of  which  Kapiton  finally 
became  a  thorough-going  drunkard,  and  as  a  man 
utterly  unfit  for  anything,  was  despatched  with 
the  train  of  freight-sledges  to  a  distant  village, 
together  with  his  wife.  On  the  day  of  departure 
he  made  a  great  show  of  courage  at  first,  and  de- 
clared that,  no  matter  where  they  might  send  him, 
even  to  the  place  where  the  peasant-wives  wash 
shirts  and  put  their  clothes-beaters  in  the  sky,  he 
would  not  come  to  grief;  but  afterward  he  be- 
came low-spirited,  began  to  complain  that  he  was 
being  taken  to  uncivilised  people,  and  finally 
weakened  to  such  a  degree  that  he  лvas  unable  even 
to  put  his  own  cap  on  his  head.     Some  compas- 

224 


мими 

sionate  soul  pulled  it  down  on  his  brow,  adjusted 
the  visor,  and  banged  it  down  on  top.  And  when 
all  was  ready,  and  the  peasants  луеге  already 
holding  the  reins  in  their  hands,  and  only  waiting 
for  the  word:  "  With  God's  blessing!  "  Gerasim 
emerged  from  his  tiny  chamber,  approached  Ta- 
tyana,  and  presented  her  with  a  souvenir  con- 
sisting of  a  red  cotton  kerchief,  which  he  had 
bought  expressly  for  her  a  year  before.  Tatyana, 
who  up  to  that  moment  had  borne  all  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  her  hf  e  with  great  equanimity,  could  hold 
out  no  longer,  and  then  and  there  burst  into  tears, 
and,  as  she  took  her  seat  in  the  cart,  exchanged 
three  kisses  with  Gerasim,  in  Christian  fashion.^ 
He  wanted  to  escort  her  to  the  town  barrier,  and 
at  first  walked  alongside  her  cart,  but  suddenly 
halted  at  the  Crimean  Ford,  waved  his  hand  and 
directed  his  steps  along  the  river. 

This  happened  toward  evening.  He  walked 
quietly,  and  stared  at  the  water.  Suddenly  it 
seemed  to  him  as  though  something  were  floun- 
dering in  the  ooze  close  to  the  bank.  He  bent 
down,  and  beheld  a  small  puppy,  white  with  black 
spots,  which,  despite  all  its  endeavours,  utterly 
unable  to  crawl  out  of  the  water,  was  struggling, 
slipping,  and  quivering  all  over  its  wet,  gaunt 
little  body.  Gerasim  gazed  at  the  unfortunate 
puppy,  picked  it  up  with  one  hand,  thrust  it  into 
his  breast,  and  set  out  with  great  strides  home- 

*  These  kisses  are  bestowed  on  the  cheeks,  alternately.— Translator, 

225 


мими 

ward.  Не  entered  his  little  den,  laid  the  rescued 
puppy  on  his  bed,  covered  it  with  his  heavy  coat, 
ran  first  to  the  stable  for  straw,  then  to  the 
kitchen  for  a  cup  of  milk.  Cautiously  throwing 
back  the  coat  and  spreading  out  the  straw,  he 
placed  the  milk  on  the  bed.  The  poor  little  dog 
was  only  three  лveeks  old ;  it  had  only  recently  got 
its  eyes  open,  and  one  eye  even  appeared  to  be  a 
little  larger  than  the  other;  it  did  not  yet  know 
how  to  drink  out  of  a  cup,  and  merely  trembled 
and  blinked.  Gerasim  grasped  it  lightly  with 
two  fingers  by  the  head,  and  bent  its  muzzle  down 
to  the  milk.  The  dog  suddenly  began  to  drink 
greedily,  snorting,  shaking  itself  and  lapping. 
Gerasim  gazed  and  gazed,  and  then  suddenly  be- 
gan to  laugh.  .  .  .  All  night  he  fussed  over  it, 
put  it  to  bed,  wiped  it  off,  and  at  last  fell  asleep 
himself  beside  it  in  a  joyous,  tranquil  slumber. 

No  mother  tends  her  infant  as  Gerasim  tended 
his  nursling.  (The  dog  proved  to  be  a  bitch.) 
In  the  beginning  she  was  very  weak,  puny,  and  ill- 
favoured,  but  little  by  little  she  improved  in  health 
and  looks,  and  at  the  end  of  eight  months,  thanks 
to  the  indefatigable  care  of  her  rescuer,  she  had 
turned  into  a  very  fair  sort  of  a  dog  of  Spanish 
breed,  with  long  ears,  a  feathery  tail  in  the  form 
of  a  trumpet,  and  large,  expressive  eyes.  She 
attached  herself  passionately  to  Gerasim,  never 
left  him  by  a  pace,  and  was  always  following  him, 
wagging  her  tail.    And  he  had  given  her  a  name, 

226 


мими 

too, — the  dumb  know  that  their  bellowing  attracts 
other  people's  attention  to  them: — he  called  her 
Mumii.  All  the  people  in  the  house  took  a  liking 
to  her,  and  also  called  her  dear  little  Mumu. 
She  was  extremely  intelligent,  fawned  upon  every 
one,  but  loved  Gerasim  alone.  Gerasim  himself 
loved  her  madly  ....  and  it  was  disagreeable 
to  him  when  others  stroked  her:  whether  he  was 
afraid  for  her,  or  jealous  of  her — God  knows! 
She  waked  him  up  in  the  morning  by  tugging  at 
his  coat-tails;  she  led  to  him  by  the  reins  the  old 
water-horse,  with  whom  she  dwelt  in  great  amity ; 
with  importance  depicted  on  her  face,  she  went 
with  him  to  the  river;  she  stood  guard  over  the 
brooms  and  shovels,  and  allowed  no  one  to  enter 
his  room.  He  cut  out  an  aperture  in  his  door 
expressly  for  her,  and  she  seemed  to  feel  that  only 
in  Gerasim's  little  den  was  she  the  full  mistress, 
and  therefore,  on  entering  it,  with  a  look  of  satis- 
faction, she  immediately  leaped  upon  the  bed.  At 
night  she  did  not  sleep  at  all,  but  she  did  not 
bark  without  discernment,  like  a  stupid  watch- 
dog, which,  sitting  on  its  haunches  and  elevating 
its  muzzle,  and  shutting  its  eyes,  barks  simply 
out  of  tedium,  at  the  stars,  and  usually  three 
times  in  succession ;  no !  Mumu's  shrill  voice  never 
resounded  without  cause!  Either  a  stranger  was 
approaching  too  close  to  the  fence,  or  some  sus- 
picious noise  or  rustling  had  arisen  somewhere, 
e  ...  In  a  word,  she  kept  capital  watch. 

227 


мими 

Truth  to  tell,  there  was,  in  addition  to  her,  an 
old  dog  in  the  courtyard,  yellow  in  hue  speckled 
with  dark  brown.  Peg-top  by  name  (Voltchok)  ; 
but  that  dog  was  never  unchained,  even  by  night, 
and  he  himself,  owing  to  his  decrepitude,  did 
not  demand  freedom,  but  lay  there,  curled  up  in 
his  kennel,  and  only  now  and  then  emitted  a 
hoarse,  almost  soundless  bark,  which  he  immedi- 
ately broke  off  short,  as  though  himself  conscious 
of  its  utter  futility. 

Mumii  did  not  enter  the  manor-house,  and  when 
Gerasim  carried  wood  to  the  rooms  she  always 
remained  behind  and  impatiently  awaited  him, 
with  ears  pricked  up,  and  her  head  turning  now 
to  the  right,  then  suddenly  to  the  left,  at  the 
slightest  noise  indoors.  .  .  . 

In  this  manner  still  another  year  passed.  Gera- 
sim continued  to  discharge  his  avocations  as  yard- 
porter  and  was  very  well  satisfied  with  his  lot, 
when  suddenly  an  unexpected  incident  occurred. 
.  .  .  Namely,  one  fine  summer  day  the  mistress, 
with  her  hangers-on,  was  walking  about  the  draw- 
ing-room. She  was  in  good  spirits,  and  was  laugh- 
ing and  jesting;  the  hangers-on  were  laughing 
and  jesting  also,  but  felt  no  particular  mirth;  the 
people  of  the  household  were  not  very  fond  of  see- 
ing the  mistress  in  merry  mood,  because,  in  the 
first  place,  at  such  times  she  demanded  instan- 
taneous and  complete  sympathy  from  every  one, 
and  flew  into  a  rage  if  there  was  a  face  which 

228 


мими 

did  not  beam  with  satisfaction;  and,  in  the  sec- 
ond place,  these  fits  did  not  last  very  long,  and 
were  generally  succeeded  by  a  gloomy  and  cross- 
grained  frame  of  mind.  On  that  day,  she  seemed 
to  have  got  up  happily;  at  cards,  she  held  four 
knaves:  the  fulfilment  of  desire  (she  always  told 
fortunes  with  the  cards  in  the  morning), — and 
her  tea  struck  her  as  particularly  delicious,  in 
consequence  whereof  the  maid  received  praise  in 
words  and  ten  kopeks  in  money.  With  a  sweet 
smile  on  her  wrinkled  lips,  the  lady  of  the  house 
strolled  about  her  drawing-room  and  approached 
the  window.  A  flower-garden  was  laid  out  in 
front  of  the  window,  and  in  the  very  middle  of  the 
border,  under  a  rose-bush,  lay  Mumii  assiduously 
gnawing  a  bone.  The  mistress  caught  sight  of 
her. 

"My  God!" — she  suddenly  exclaimed; — 
"  what  dog  is  that?  " 

The  hanger-on  whom  the  mistress  addressed 
floundered,  poor  creature,  with  that  painful  un- 
easiness which  generally  takes  possession  of  a 
dependent  person  when  he  does  not  quite  know 
how  he  is  to  understand  his  superior's  excla- 
mation. 

"  I  .  .  .  d  .  .  do  .  .  .  .  on't  know,  ma'am," 
she  stammered;  "  I  think  it  belongs  to  the  dumb 
man." 

"  My  God!  "—her  mistress  interrupted  her: — 
"why,  it  is  a  very  pretty  dog!     Order  it  to  be 

229 


MUMtr 

brought  hither.  Has  he  had  it  long?  How  is  it 
that  I  have  not  seen  it  before?  .  .  .  Order  it  to 
be  brought  hither." 

The  hanger-on  immediately  fluttered  out  into 
the  anteroom. 

"  Man,  man!  " — she  screamed,—"  bring  Mumii 
here  at  once!    She  is  in  the  flower-garden." 

"  And  so  her  name  is  Mumu,"— said  the  mis- 
tress;— "a  very  nice  name." 

"  Akh,  very  nice  indeed,  ma'am!" — replied 
the  dependent.— "  Be  quick,  Stepan!" 

Stepan,  a  sturdy  young  fellow,  who  served  as 
footman,  rushed  headlong  to  the  garden  and  tried 
to  seize  Mumu ;  but  the  latter  cleverly  slipped  out 
of  his  fingers,  and  elevating  her  tail,  set  off  at 
full  gallop  to  Gerasim,  who  was  in  the  kitchen 
beating  out  and  shaking  out  the  water-cask,  twirl- 
ing it  about  in  his  hands  like  a  child's  drum.  Ste- 
pan ran  after  her,  and  tried  to  seize  her  at  the  very 
feet  of  her  master;  but  the  agile  dog  would  not 
surrender  herself  into  the  hands  of  a  stranger, 
and  kept  leaping  and  evading  him.  Gerasim 
looked  on  at  all  this  tumult  with  a  grin;  at  last 
Stepan  rose  in  wrath,  and  hastily  gave  him  to 
understand  by  signs  that  the  mistress  had  ordered 
the  dog  to  be  brought  to  her.  Gerasim  was  some- 
what surprised,  but  he  called  INIumu,  lifted  her 
from  the  ground,  and  handed  her  to  Stepan.  Ste- 
pan carried  her  into  the  drawing-room,  and  placed 
her  on  the  polished  wood  floor.     The  mistress 

230 


мими 

began  to  call  the  dog  to  her  in  a  caressing  voice. 
Mumu,  who  had  never  in  her  life  been  in  such 
magnificent  rooms,  was  extremely  frightened, 
and  tried  to  dart  through  the  door,  but,  rebuffed 
by  the  obsequious  Stepan,  fell  to  trembling,  and 
crouched  against  the  wall. 

"  Mumu,  Mumu,  come  hither  to  me," — said 
the  mistress; — "  come,  thou  stupid  creature  .  .  .  . 
don't  be  afraid.  ..." 

"  Come,  Mumu,  come  to  the  mistress," — re- 
peated the  dependents; — "  come!  " 

But  Mumii  looked  anxiously  about  and  did  not 
stir  from  the  spot. 

"  Bring  her  something  to  eat,"— said  the  mis- 
tress.— "What  a  stujDid  thing  she  is!  She  won't 
come  to  the  mistress.    What  is  she  afraid  of?  " 

"  She  feels  strange  still,"— remarked  one  of  the 
dependents,  in  a  timid  and  imploring  voice. 

Stepan  brought  a  saucer  of  milk  and  set  it  in 
front  of  Mumu,  but  Mumii  did  not  even  smell  of 
the  milk,  and  kept  on  trembling  and  gazing  about 
her,  as  before. 

"  Akh,  who  ever  saw  such  a  creature!  " — said 
the  mistress,  as  she  approached  her,  bent  down 
and  was  on  the  point  of  stroking  her ;  but  Mumu 
turned  her  head  and  displayed  her  teeth  in  a  snarl. 
—  The  mistress  hastily  drew  back  her  hand. 

A  momentary  silence  ensued.  Mumu  whined 
faintly,  as  though  complaining  and  excusing  her- 
self. .  .  The    mistress    retreated    and    frowned. 

231 


мими 

The  dog's  sudden  movement  had  frightened 
her. 

"Akh!"— cried  all  the  dependents  with  one 
accord:—"  She  did  n't  bite  you,  did  she?  God 
forbid!"  (Mumu  had  never  bitten  any  one  in 
her  life.)     "Akh!  akh!" 

"  Take  her  away," — said  the  old  woman,  in  an 
altered  voice,—"  the  horrid  little  dog!  What  a 
vicious  beast  she  is!  " 

And  slowly  turning,  she  went  toward  her  bou- 
doir. The  dependents  exchanged  timorous 
glances  and  started  to  follow  her,  but  she 
paused,  looked  coldly  at  them,  said :  "  Why  do 
you  do  that?  for  I  have  not  bidden  you,"  and  left 
the  room. 

The  dependents  waved  their  hands  in  despair  at 
Stepan;  the  latter  picked  up  Mumu  and  flung 
her  out  into  the  yard  as  speedily  as  possible, 
straight  at  Gerasim's  feet ;  and  half  an  hour  later 
a  profound  stillness  reigned  in  the  house,  and  the 
old  gentlewoman  sat  on  her  divan  more  lowering 
than  a  thunder-cloud. 

What  trifles,  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it,  can 
sometimes  put  a  person  out  of  tune ! 

The  lady  лvas  out  of  sorts  until  evening,  talked 
with  no  one,  did  not  play  cards,  and  passed  a  bad 
night.  She  took  it  into  her  head  that  they  had 
not  given  her  the  same  eau  de  cologne  which  they 
usually  gave  her,  that  her  piUow  smelled  of  soap, 
and  made  the  keeper  of  the  linen-closet  smell 

232 


мими 

all  the  bed-linen  twice, — in  a  word,  she  was 
upset  and  extremely  incensed.  On  the  follow- 
ing morning  she  ordered  Gavrila  to  be  sum- 
moned to  her  presence  an  hour  earlier  than 
usual. 

"Tell  me,  please," — she  began,  as  soon  as  the 
latter,  not  without  some  inward  quaking,  had 
crossed  the  threshold  of  her  boudoir, — "  why  that 
dog  was  barking  in  our  courtyard  all  night  long? 
It  prevented  my  getting  to  sleep!  " 

"  A  dog,  ma'am  ....  which  one,  ma'am? .  .  . 
Perhaps  it  was  the  dumb  man's  dog,"— he  uttered 
in  a  voice  that  was  not  altogether  firm. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  it  belongs  to  the  dumb 
man  or  to  some  one  else,  only  it  interfered  with 
my  sleep.  And  I  am  amazed  that  there  is  such  a 
horde  of  dogs!  I  want  to  know  about  it.  We 
have  a  watch-dog,  have  we  not?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  we  have,  ma'am,  Peg-top, 
ma'am." 

"  Well,  what  need  have  we  for  any  more  dogs? 
They  only  create  disorder.  There  's  no  head  to 
the  house, — that 's  what 's  the  matter.  And  what 
does  the  dumb  man  want  of  a  dog?  Who  has 
given  him  permission  to  keep  a  dog  in  my  court- 
yard? Yesterday  I  went  to  the  window,  and  it 
was  lying  in  the  garden;  it  had  brought  some 
nasty  thing  there,  and  was  gnawing  it, — and  I 
have  roses  planted  there.  .  .  ." 

The  lady  paused  for  a  while. 

233 


мими 

"See  that  it  is  removed  this  very  day  .... 
dost  hear  me? " 

"  I  obey,  ma'am." 

"  This  very  day.  And  now,  go.  I  will  have 
thee  called  for  thy  report  later." 

Gavrila  left  the  room. 

As  he  passed  through  the  drawing-room,  the 
major-domo  transferred  a  small  bell  from  one 
table  to  another,  for  show,  softly  blew  his  duck's- 
bill  nose  in  the  hall,  and  went  out  into  the  ante- 
room. In  the  anteroom,  on  a  locker,  Stepan  was 
sleeping  in  the  attitude  of  a  slain  warrior  in  a 
battalion  picture,  with  his  bare  legs  projecting 
from  his  coat,  which  served  him  in  Heu  of  a  cov- 
erlet. 

The  major-domo  nudged  him,  and  imparted 
to  him  in  an  undertone  some  order,  to  which 
Stepan  replied  with  a  half -yawn,  half -laugh.  The 
major-domo  withdrew,  and  Stepan  sprang  to  his 
feet,  drew  on  his  kaftan  and  his  boots,  went  out 
and  came  to  a  standstill  on  the  porch.  Five  min- 
utes had  not  elapsed  before  Gerasim  made  his  ap- 
pearance with  a  huge  fagot  of  firewood  on  his 
back,  accompanied  by  his  inseparable  Mumu. 
(The  mistress  had  issued  orders  that  her  bed- 
room and  boudoir  were  to  be  heated  even  in  sum- 
mer.) Gerasim  stood  sideways  to  the  door,  gave 
it  a  push  with  his  shoulder,  and  precipitated  him- 
self into  the  house  with  his  burden.  Mumii,  ac- 
cording to  her  wont,  remained  behind  to  wait  for 

234 


мими 

him.  Then  Stepan,  seizing  a  favourable  mo- 
ment, made  a  sudden  dash  at  her,  hke  a  hawk 
pouncing  on  a  chicken,  crushed  her  to  the  ground 
with  his  breast,  gathered  her  up  in  his  arms,  and 
without  stopping  to  don  so  much  as  his  cap,  ran 
out  into  the  street  with  her,  jumped  into  the  first 
drozhky  that  came  to  hand,  and  galloped  off  to 
the  Game  Market.  There  he  speedily  hunted  up 
a  purchaser,  to  луЬош  he  sold  her  for  half  a  ruble, 
stipulating  only  that  the  latter  should  keep  her 
tied  up  for  at  least  a  week,  and  immediately  re- 
turned home;  but  before  he  reached  the  house, 
he  alighted  from  the  drozhky,  and  making  a  cir- 
cuit of  the  house,  he  leaped  over  the  fence  into 
the  yard  from  a  back  alley ;  he  was  afraid  to  enter 
by  the  wicket,  lest  he  should  encounter  Gerasim. 
But  his  anxiety  was  wasted;  Gerasim  was  no 
longer  in  the  courtyard.  On  coming  out  of  the 
house  he  had  instantly  bethought  himself  of 
Mumu ;  he  could  not  remember  that  she  had  ever 
failed  to  await  his  return,  and  he  began  to  run 
in  every  direction  to  hunt  for  her,  to  call  her  after 
his  own  fashion  ...  he  dashed  into  his  little 
chamber,  to  the  hay -loft ;  he  darted  into  the  street, 
— hither  and  thither.  .  .  .  She  was  gone !  He  ap- 
pealed to  the  domestics,  with  the  most  despairing 
signs  inquired  about  her ;  pointing  fourteen  inches 
from  the  ground,  he  drew  her  form  with  his 
hands.  .  .  .  Some  of  them  really  did  not  know 
what  had  become  of  Mumu,  and  only  shook  their 

235 


MUMtr 

heads;  others  did  know  and  grinned  at  him  in 
reply,  but  the  major-domo  assumed  a  very  pom- 
pous mien  and  began  to  shout  at  the  coachmen. 
Then  Gerasim  fled  far  away  from  the  courtyard. 

Twihght  was  already  falling  when  he  returned. 
One  was  justified  in  assuming,  from  his  exhausted 
aspect,  from  his  unsteady  gait,  from  his  dusty 
clothing,  that  he  had  wandered  over  the  half  of 
Moscow.  He  halted  in  front  of  the  mistress's 
windows,  swept  a  glance  over  the  porch  on  which 
seven  house-serfs  лvere  gathered,  turned  away, 
and  bellowed  once  more:  "  Mumu!  " — Mumu  did 
not  respond.  He  went  away.  All  stared  after 
him,  but  no  one  smiled,  no  one  uttered  a  word 
.  .  .  and  the  curious  postilion,  Antipka,  narrated 
on  the  following  morning  in  the  kitchen,  that  the 
dumb  man  had  moaned  all  night  long. 

All  the  following  day  Gerasim  did  not  show 
himself,  so  that  Potap  the  coachman  was  obliged 
to  go  for  water  in  his  stead,  which  greatly  dis- 
pleased coachman  Potap.  The  mistress  asked 
Gavrila  whether  her  command  had  been  executed. 
Gavrila  replied  that  it  had.  The  next  morning 
Gerasim  emerged  from  his  chamber  to  do  his 
work.  He  came  to  dinner,  ate  and  went  ofl* 
again,  without  having  exchanged  greetings  with 
any  one.  His  face,  which  was  inanimate  at  the 
best  of  times,  as  is  the  case  with  all  deaf  and 
dumb  persons,  now  seemed  to  have  become  abso- 
lutely petrified.     After  dinner  he  again  quitted 

236 


мими 

the  courtyard,  but  not  for  long,  returned  and 
immediately  directed  his  steps  to  the  hay-barn. 
Night  came,  a  clear,  moonlight  night.  Sighing 
heavily  and  incessantly  tossing  from  side  to  side, 
Gerasim  was  lying  there,  when  he  suddenly 
felt  as  though  something  were  tugging  at  the 
skirts  of  his  garments;  he  trembled  all  over,  but 
did  not  raise  his  head,  nevertheless,  and  even 
screwed  his  eyes  up  tight;  but  the  tugging  was 
repeated,  more  energetically  than  before;  he 
sprang  to  his  feet  ....  before  him,  with  a  frag- 
ment of  rope  about  her  neck,  Mumu  was  capering 
about.  A  prolonged  shriek  of  joy  burst  from  his 
speechless  breast;  he  seized  Mumu  and  clasped 
her  in  a  close  embrace;  in  one  moment  she  had 
licked  his  nose,  his  eyes,  and  his  beard.  .  .  He 
stood  still  for  a  while,  pondering,  cautiously 
slipped  down  from  the  hay-mow,  cast  a  glance 
round  him,  and  having  made  sure  that  no  one  was 
watching  him,  he  safely  regained  his  little 
chamber. 

Even  before  this  Gerasim  had  divined  that  the 
dog  had  not  disappeared  of  her  own  volition ;  that 
she  must  have  been  carried  away  by  the  mistress's 
command;  for  the  domestics  had  explained  to 
him  by  signs  how  his  Mumu  had  snapped  at  her 
— and  he  decided  to  take  precautions  of  his  own. 
First  he  fed  Mumii  with  some  bread,  caressed  her, 
and  put  her  to  bed ;  then  he  began  to  consider  how 
he  might  best  conceal  her.    At  last  he  hit  upon 

237 


мими 

the  idea  of  leaving  her  all  day  in  his  room,  and 
only  looking  in  now  and  then  to  see  how  she  was 
getting  along,  and  taking  her  out  for  exercise 
at  night.  He  closed  the  opening  in  his  door  com- 
pactly by  stuffing  in  an  old  coat  of  his,  and  as 
soon  as  it  was  daylight  he  was  in  the  courtyard, 
as  though  nothing  had  happened,  even  preserving 
(innocent  guile!)  his  former  dejection  of  coun- 
tenance. It  could  not  enter  the  head  of  the  poor 
deaf  man  that  Mumu  would  betray  herself  by  her 
whining;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  every  one  in  the 
house  was  speedily  aware  that  the  dumb  man's  dog 
had  come  back  and  was  locked  up  in  his  room; 
but  out  of  compassion  for  him  and  for  her,  and 
partly,  perhaps,  out  of  fear  of  him,  they  did  not 
give  him  to  understand  that  his  secret  had  been 
discovered. 

The  major-domo  alone  scratched  the  back  of 
his  head  and  waved  his  hand  in  despair,  as  much 
as  to  say :  "  Well,  I  wash  my  hands  of  the  mat- 
ter! Perhaps  the  mistress  will  not  get  to  know 
of  it!  "  And  never  had  the  dumb  man  worked 
so  zealously  as  on  that  day ;  he  swept  and  scraped 
out  the  entire  courtyard,  he  rooted  up  all  the 
blades  of  grass  to  the  very  last  one,  with  his  own 
hand  pulled  up  all  the  props  in  the  garden-fence, 
with  a  view  to  making  sure  that  they  were  suffi- 
ciently firm,  and  then  hammered  them  in  again, 
— in  a  word,  he  fussed  and  bustled  about  so,  that 
even  the  mistress  noticed  his  zeal. 

238 


мими 

Twice  in  the  course  of  the  day  Gerasim  went 
stealthily  to  his  captive;  and  when  night  came, 
he  lay  down  to  sleep  in  her  company,  in  the  little 
room,  not  in  the  hay-barn,  and  only  at  one  o'clock 
did  he  go  out  to  take  a  stroll  with  her  in  the  fresh 
air.  Having  walked  quite  a  long  time  with  her 
in  the  courtyard,  he  was  preparing  to  return, 
when  suddenly  a  noise  resounded  outside  the 
fence  in  the  direction  of  the  alley.  Mumu  pricked 
up  her  ears,  began  to  growl,  approached  the  fence, 
sniffed,  and  broke  forth  into  a  loud  and  piercing 
bark.  Some  drunken  man  or  other  had  taken 
it  into  his  head  to  nestle  down  there  for  the  night. 
At  that  very  moment,  the  mistress  had  just  got 
to  sleep  after  a  prolonged  "  nervous  excitement  " ; 
she  always  had  these  excited  fits  after  too  hearty 
a  supper.  The  sudden  barking  woke  her;  her 
heart  began  to  beat  violently,  and  to  collapse. 

"Maids,    maids!"— she    moaned.— "  Maids!  " 

The  frightened  maids  flew  to  her  bedroom. 

"  Okh,  okh,  I  'm  dying!  "—said  she,  throwing 
her  hands  apart  in  anguish. — "  There  's  that  dog 
again,  again!  .  .  .  Okh,  send  for  the  doctor! 
They  want  to  kill  me.  .  .  The  dog,  the  dog  again ! 
Okh!" 

And  she  flung  back  her  head,  which  was  in- 
tended to  denote  a  swoon. 

They  ran  for  the  doctor,  that  is  to  say,  for  the 
household  medical  man,  Khariton.  The  whole 
art  of  this  healer  consisted  in  the  fact  that  he  wore 

239 


мими 

boots  with  soft  soles,  understood  how  to  feel  the 
pulse  delicately,  slept  fourteen  hours  out  of  the 
twenty-four,  spent  the  rest  of  the  time  in  sighing, 
and  was  incessantly  treating  the  mistress  to  laurel 
drops.  This  healer  immediately  hastened  to  her, 
fumigated  with  burnt  feathers,  and  when  the  mis- 
tress opened  her  eyes,  immediately  presented  to 
her  on  a  silver  tray  a  wine-glass  with  the  inevitable 
drops. 

The  mistress  took  them,  but  immediately,  with 
tearful  eyes,  began  to  complain  of  the  dog,  of 
Gavrila,  of  her  lot,  that  she,  a  poor  old  woman, 
had  been  abandoned  by  every  one,  that  no  one  had 
any  pity  on  her,  and  that  every  one  desired  her 
death.  In  the  meantime  the  unlucky  Mumu  con- 
tinued to  bark,  while  Gerasim  strove  in  vain  to  call 
her  away  from  the  fence. 

"  There  .  .  .  there  ....  it  goes  again!  .  .  ." 
stammered  the  mistress,  and  again  rolled  up  her 
eyes.  The  medical  man  whispered  to  one  of 
the  maids;  she  rushed  into  the  anteroom,  and 
explained  matters  to  Stepan;  the  latter  ran  to 
awaken  Gavrila,  and  Ga\Tila,  in  a  passion,  gave 
orders  that  the  whole  household  should  be  roused. 

Gerasim  turned  round,  beheld  the  twinkling 
lights  and  shadows  in  the  windows,  and,  fore- 
boding in  his  heart  a  catastrophe,  he  caught  up 
Mumu  under  his  arm,  ran  into  his  room  and 
locked  the  door.  A  few  moments  later,  five  men 
were  thumping  at  his  door,  but  feeling  the  re- 

240 


мими 

sistance  of  the  bolt,  desisted.  Gavrila  ran  up  in  a 
frightful  hurry,  ordered  them  all  to  remain  there 
until  morning  and  stand  guard,  while  he  himself 
burst  into  the  maids'  hall  and  gave  orders  through 
the  eldest  companion,  LiubofF  ^  Liubimovna,— to- 
gether with  whom  he  was  in  the  habit  of  stealing 
and  enjoying  tea,  sugar,  and  other  groceries, — 
that  the  mistress  was  to  be  informed  that  the  dog, 
unfortunately,  had  run  home  again  from  some- 
where or  other,  but  that  it  would  not  be  alive  on 
the  morrow,  and  that  the  mistress  must  do  them 
the  favour  not  to  be  angry,  and  must  calm  down. 
The  mistress  probably  would  not  have  calmed 
down  very  speedily,  had  not  the  medical  man,  in 
his  haste,  poured  out  forty  drops  instead  of 
twelve.  The  strength  of  the  laurel  took  its  effect 
— in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  mistress  was  sleep- 
ing soundly  and  peacefully,  and  Gerasim  was 
lying,  all  pale,  on  his  bed,  tightly  compressing 
Mumu's  mouth. 

On  the  following  morning  the  mistress  awoke 
quite  late.  Gavrila  was  waiting  for  her  awaken- 
ing in  order  to  make  a  decisive  attack  upon  Gera- 
sim's  asylum,  and  was  himself  prepared  to  endure 
a  heavy  thunder-storm.  But  the  thunder-storm 
did  not  come  off.  As  she  lay  in  bed,  the  mistress 
ordered  the  eldest  dependent  to  be  called  to  her. 

"  LiubofF  Liubimovna," — she  began  in  a  soft, 
weak  voice;  she  sometimes  liked  to  pretend  to 

^  Amy  or  Charity. — Translator. 

241 


мими 

be  а  persecuted  and  defenceless  sufferer;  it  is 
needless  to  state  that  at  such  times  all  the  people 
in  the  house  felt  very  uncomfortable: — "  LiubofF 
Ь1иЬ1тол^па,  you  see  лvhat  my  condition  is; 
go,  my  dear,  to  Gavrila  Andreitch,  and  have 
a  talk  with  him;  it  cannot  be  possible  that  some 
nasty  little  dog  or  other  is  more  precious  to 
him  than  the  tranquillity,  the  very  life  of  his 
mistress!  I  should  not  like  to  believe  that," — 
she  added,  лvith  an  expression  of  profound  emo- 
tion:— "  Go,  my  dear,  be  so  good,  go  to  Gavrila 
Andreitch." 

LiubofF  Liubimovna  betook  herself  to  Ga- 
vrila's  room.  ЛVhat  conversation  took  place  be- 
tween them  is  not  known;  but  a  Avhile  later  a 
whole  throng  of  domestics  marched  through  the 
courtyard  in  the  direction  of  Gerasim's  little  den ; 
in  front  walked  Gavrila,  holding  on  his  cap  with 
his  hand,  although  there  was  no  wind;  around 
him  walked  footmen  and  cooks ;  Uncle  Tail  gazed 
out  of  the  window,  and  issued  orders — that  is  to 
say,  he  merely  spread  his  hands  apart ;  in  the  rear 
of  all,  the  small  urchins  leaped  and  capered,  one 
half  of  them  being  strangers  who  had  run  in.  On 
the  narrow  stairway  leading  to  the  den  sat  one 
sentry;  at  the  door  stood  two  others  with  clubs. 
They  began  to  ascend  the  staircase,  and  occupied 
it  to  its  full  length.  Gavrila  went  to  the  door, 
knocked  on  it  with  his  fist,  and  shouted : 

"Open!" 

24i2 


мими 

А  suppressed  bark  made  itself  audible;  but 
there  was  no  reply. 

"  Open,  I  say!  "—he  repeated. 
"  But,  Gavrila  Andreitch," — remarked  Stepan 
from  below:—"  he  's  deaf,  you  know— he  does  n't 
hear." 

All  burst  out  laughing. 

*'  What  is  to  be  done?  "—retorted  Gavrila  from 
the  top  of  the  stairs. 

*'  AVhy,  he  has  a  hole  in  his  door,"— replied 
Stepan;—"  so  do  you  wiggle  a  stick  around  in  it 
a  bit." 

Gavrila  bent  down. 

"He  has  stuiFed  it  up  with  some  sort  of  coat, 
that  hole." 

"  But  do  you  poke  the  coat  inward." 
At  this  point  another  dull  bark  rang  out. 
"See  there,   see  there,   she   's  giving  herself 
away!" — some  one  remarked  in  the  crowd,  and 
again  there  was  laughter. 

Gavrila  scratched  behind  his  ear. 
"  No,  brother,"— he  went  on  at  last;—"  do  thou 
poke  the  coat  through  thyself,  if  thou  wishest." 
"Why,  certainly!" 

And  Stepan  scrambled  up,  took  a  stick,  thrust 
the  coat  inside,  and  began  to  лviggle  the  stick 
about  in  the  opening,  saying:  "  Come  forth,  come 
forth ! "  He  was  still  wiggling  the  stick  when 
the  door  of  the  little  chamber  flew  suddenly  and 
swiftly  open — and  the  whole  train  of  menials 

243 


мими 

rolled  head  over  heels  down  the  stairs,  Gavrila  in 
the  lead.    Uncle  Tail  shut  the  window. 

"  Come,  come,  come,  come!  " — shouted  Gavrila 
from  the  courtyard; — "  just  look  out,  look  out!  " 

Gerasim  stood  motionless  on  the  threshold. 
The  crowd  assembled  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase. 
Gerasim  stared  at  all  these  petty  folk  in  their 
foreign  kaftans  from  аЬол^е,  лvith  his  arms  lightly 
set  akimbo ;  in  his  scarlet  peasant  shirt  he  seemed 
like  a  giant  in-  comparison  with  them.  Gavrila 
advanced  a  pace. 

"See  here,  brother," — said  he: — "I  '11  take 
none  of  thy  impudence." 

And  he  began  to  explain  to  him  by  signs :  "  The 
mistress  insists  upon  having  thy  dog :  hand  it  over 
instantly,  or  't  will  be  the  worse  for  thee." 

Gerasim  looked  at  him,  pointed  to  the  dog, 
made  a  sign  with  his  hand  at  his  own  neck,  as 
though  he  were  drawing  up  a  noose,  and  cast  an 
inquiring  glance  at  the  major-domo. 

"  Yes,  yes,"— replied  the  latter,  nodding  his 
head; — "  yes,  she  insists." 

Gerasim  dropped  his  eyes,  then  suddenly 
shook  himself,  again  pointed  at  Mumu,  who  all 
this  time  had  been  standing  by  his  side,  innocently 
wagging  her  tail  and  moving  her  ears  to  and  fro 
with  curiosity,  repeated  the  sign  of  strangling 
over  his  own  neck,  and  significantly  smote  him- 
self on  the  breast,  as  though  declaring  that  he 
would  take  it  upon  himself  to  annihilate  Mumii. 

244 


мими 

"  But  thou  wilt  deceive,"— waved  Gavrila  to 
him  in  reply. 

Gerasim  looked  at  him,  laughed  disdainfully, 
smote  himself  again  on  the  breast,  and  slammed 
the  door. 

All  present  exchanged  glances  in  silence. 

"  Well,  and  what  's  the  meaning  of  this?  "— 
began  Gavrila.—"  He  has  locked  himself  in." 

"  Let  him  alone,  Gavrila  Andreitch,"— said 
Stepan;— "he  '11  do  it,  if  he  has  promised. 
That  's  the  sort  of  fellow  he  is.  .  .  .  If  he  once 
promises  a  thing,  it  's  safe.  He  is  n't  like  us 
folks  in  that  respect.  What  is  true  is  true. 
Yes." 

"  Yes,"— repeated  all,  and  wagged  their  heads. 
-"That's  so.    Yes." 

Uncle  Tail  opened  the  window  and  said  "  Yes," 
also. 

"  Well,  we  shall  see,  I  suppose,"— returned 
Gavrila;—"  but  the  guard  is  not  to  be  removed, 
notwithstanding.  Hey,  there,  Eroshka!"— he 
added,  addressing  a  poor  man  in  a  yellow  nankeen 
kazak  coat,  who  was  reckoned  as  the  gardener: — 
"  what  hast  thou  to  do?  Take  a  stick  and  sit  here, 
and  if  anything  happens,  run  for  me  on  the  in- 
stant." 

Eroshka  took  a  stick  and  sat  down  on  the  last 
step  of  the  staircase.  The  crowd  dispersed,  with 
the  exception  of  a  few  curious  bodies  and  the 
small  urchins,  while  Gavrila  returned  home,  and 

245 


мими 

through  Liuboff  Liubimovna  gave  orders  that  the 
mistress  should  be  informed  that  everything  had 
been  done,  and  that  he  himself,  in  order  to  make 
quite  sure,  had  sent  the  postilion  for  a  policeman. 
The  mistress  tied  a  knot  in  her  handkerchief, 
poured  eau  de  cologne  on  it,  sniffed  at  it,  wiped 
her  temples,  sipped  her  tea  and,  being  still  under 
the  influence  of  the  laurel  drops,  fell  asleep  again. 

An  hour  after  all  this  commotion,  the  door  of 
the  tiny  den  opened  and  Gerasim  made  his  ap- 
pearance. He  wore  a  new  holiday  kaftan;  he 
was  leading  Mumu  by  a  string.  Eroshka  drew 
aside  and  let  him  pass.  Gerasim  directed  his  way 
toward  the  gate.  All  the  small  boys  who  were 
in  the  courtyard  followed  him  with  their  eyes 
in  silence.  He  did  not  even  turn  round;  he  did 
not  put  on  his  cap  until  he  reached  the  street. 
Gavrfla  despatched  after  him  that  same  Eroshka, 
in  the  capacity  of  observer.  Eroshka,  perceiving 
from  afar  that  he  had  entered  an  eating-house  in 
company  with  his  dog,  awaited  his  reappearance. 

In  the  eating-house  they  knew  Gerasim  and 
understood  his  signs.  He  ordered  cabbage-soup 
with  meat,  and  seated  himself,  with  his  arms 
resting  on  the  table.  Mumu  stood  beside  his 
chair,  calmly  gazing  at  him  with  her  intelligent 
eyes.  Her  coat  was  fairly  shining  with  gloss:  it 
was  evident  that  she  had  recently  been  brushed. 
They  brought  the  cabbage-soup  to  Gerasim.  He 
crumbled  up  bread  in  it,  cut  the  meat  up  into 

246 


мими 

small  pieces,  and  set  the  plate  on  the  floor.  Mumii 
began  to  eat  with  her  customary  politeness,  hardly 
touching  her  muzzle  to  the  food;  Gerasim  stared 
long  at  her ;  two  heavy  tears  rolled  suddenly  from 
his  eyes;  one  fell  on  the  dog's  sloping  forehead, 
the  other  into  the  soup.  He  covered  his  face  with 
his  hand.  Mumu  ate  half  a  plateful  and  retired, 
licking  her  chops.  Gerasim  rose,  paid  for  the 
soup,  and  set  out,  accompanied  by  the  somewhat 
astounded  glance  of  the  waiter.  Eroshka,  on 
catching  sight  of  Gerasim,  sprang  round  the  cor- 
ner, and  allowing  him  to  pass,  again  set  out  on  his 
track. 

Gerasim  walked  on  without  haste,  and  did  not 
release  Mumu  from  the  cord.  On  reaching  the 
corner  of  the  street  he  halted,  as  though  in 
thought,  and  suddenly  directed  his  course,  with 
swift  strides,  straight  toward  the  Crimean  Ford. 
On  the  way  he  entered  the  yard  of  a  house,  to 
which  a  wing  was  being  built,  and  brought  thence 
two  bricks  under  his  arm.  From  the  Crimean 
Ford  he  turned  along  the  bank,  advanced  to  a 
certain  spot,  where  stood  two  boats  with  oars,  tied 
to  stakes  (he  had  already  noted  them  previously) , 
and  sprang  into  one  of  them,  in  company  with 
Mumu.  A  lame  little  old  man  emerged  from 
behind  a  hut  placed  in  one  corner  of  a  vege- 
table-garden, and  shouted  at  him.  But  Gerasim 
only  nodded  his  head,  and  set  to  rowing  so  vig- 
orously, although  against  the  current,  that  in  an 

247 


мими 

instant  he  had  darted  off  to  a  distance  of  a 
hundred  fathoms.  The  old  man  stood  and  stood, 
scratched  his  back,  first  with  the  left  hand 
then  with  the  right,  and  returned,  limping,  to 
his  hut. 

But  Gerasim  rowed  on  and  on.  And  now  he 
had  left  Moscow  behind  him.  Now,  already  mea- 
dows, fields,  groves  stretched  along  the  shores,  and 
peasant  cottages  made  their  appearance.  It 
smacked  of  the  country.  He  flung  aside  the  oars, 
bent  his  head  down  to  Mumu,  who  was  sitting  in 
front  of  him  on  a  dry  thwart, — the  bottom  was 
inundated  with  water, — and  remained  motionless, 
with  his  mighty  hands  crossed  on  her  back,  while 
the  boat  drifted  a  little  backward  with  the  current 
toward  the  town.  At  last  Gerasim  straightened 
up  hastily,  with  a  sort  of  painful  wrath  on  his 
face,  wound  the  rope  around  the  bricks  he  had 
taken,  arranged  a  noose,  put  it  on  Mumu's  neck, 
lifted  her  over  the  river,  for  the  last  time  gazed 
at  her.  .  .  .  She  gazed  back  at  him  confidingly 
and  without  alarm,  waving  her  Httle  tail  slightly. 
He  turned  awaj^  shut  his  eyes,  and  opened  his 
hands.  .  .  Gerasim  heard  nothing,  neither  the 
swift  whine  of  the  falling  JNIumu,  nor  the  loud 
splash  of  the  water;  for  him  the  noisiest  day 
was  silent  and  speechless,  as  not  even  the  quiet- 
est night  is  to  us,  and  when  he  opened  his  eyes 
again,  the  little  waves  were  hurrying  down  the 
river  as  before;   as  before  they  were  plashing 

248 


мими 

about  the  sides  of  the  boat,  and  only  far  astern 
toward  the  shore  certain  broad  circles  were 
spreading. 

Eroshka,  as  soon  as  Gerasim  vanished  from  his 
sight,  returned  home  and  reported  what  he  had 
seen. 

"Well,  yes,"— remarked  Stepan;— "he  will 
drown  her.  You  may  be  easy  about  that.  If  he 
has  once  j)romised  a  thing  .  .  .  ." 

Throughout  the  day  no  one  saw  Gerasim.  He 
did  not  dine  at  home.  Evening  came ;  all,  except 
him,  assembled  for  supper. 

"What  a  queer  fellow  that  Gerasim  is!" — 
squealed  a  fat  laundress.  "  The  idea  of  making 
such  a  fuss  over  a  dog!  .  .  .  Really!  " 

"  But  Gerasim  has  been  here,"— suddenly  ex- 
claimed Stepan,  as  he  scooped  up  his  buckwheat 
groats  with  his  spoon. 

"What?    When?" 

"  Why,  a  couple  of  hours  ago.  Certainly  he 
hasl  I  met  him  at  the  gate;  he  has  gone  away 
from  here  again ;  he  went  out  of  the  courtyard.  I 
wanted  to  ask  him  about  his  dog,  but  he  evidently 
was  out  of  sorts.  Well,  and  he  jostled  me;  it 
must  have  been  done  by  accident,  he  only  wanted 
to  get  me  out  of  the  way;  as  much  as  to  say: 
'Don't  bother  me! ' — but  he  gave  me  such  a  dig 
in  the  spine,  that  61,  61,  61! " — And  Stepan 
shrugged  his  shoulders  with  an  involuntary  grim- 
ace, and  rubbed  the  nape  of  his  neck. — "  Yes," 

249 


мими 

— he  added; — "  his  hand  is  an  apt  one,  there  's  no 
denying  that!  " 

All  laughed  at  Stepan  and,  after  supper,  dis- 
persed to  their  beds. 

And  in  the  meantime,  on  that  same  night,  on 
the  T***  highway,  a  giant  was  marching  onward 
diligently  and  unremittingly,  with  a  sack  on  his 
shoulders,  and  a  long  staff  in  his  hands.  It  was 
Gerasim.  He  was  hurrying  on,  without  look- 
ing behind  him,  hurrying  home,  to  his  own 
house  in  the  country,  to  his  native  place.  After 
drowning  poor  Mumii,  he  had  hastened  to  his 
little  den,  had  briskly  put  together  a  few  articles 
of  clothing  in  an  old  horse-cloth,  had  tied  it  up 
with  a  knot,  slung  it  across  his  shoulder,  and 
taken  himself  off.  He  had  noted  well  the  road 
when  he  had  been  brought  to  Moscow ;  the  village 
from  which  his  mistress  had  taken  him  lay  at 
most  five-and-twenty  versts  from  the  highway. 
He  walked  along  it  with  a  certain  invincible  har- 
dihood, with  despairing,  yet  joyful  firmness. 
He  strode  onward,  his  breast  expanded  broadly; 
his  eyes  were  bent  eagerly  straight  ahead.  He 
hastened  onward  as  though  his  aged  mother  were 
waiting  for  him  in  his  native  place,  as  though  she 
had  summoned  him  to  her  after  long  wanderings 
in  foreign  lands,  among  strange  peoples.  .  .  The 
summer  night,  which  had  only  just  descended, 
was  warm  and  tranquil;  on  the  one  hand,  in  the 
direction  where  the  sun  had  gone  down,  the  rim 

250 


мими 

of  the  sky  was  still  white,  with  a  crimson  gleam 
from  the  last  reflection  of  the  vanished  day, — on 
the  other  hand,  the  blue-grey  gloom  was  rising. 
Night  had  come  thence.  Hundreds  of  quail  were 
whistling  all  around,  corn-crakes  were  vying  with 
each  other  in  their  calls.  .  .  .  Gerasim  could  not 
hear  them,  he  could  not  hear  even  the  delicate 
nocturnal  rustling  of  the  trees  past  which  he 
was  bearing  his  mighty  feet,  but  he  discerned  the 
familiar  scent  of  the  ripening  rye,  which  was 
exhaled  from  the  dark  fields;  he  felt  the  breeze 
wafting  to  meet  him,— the  breeze  from  his  native 
place, — beating  on  his  face,  playing  with  his  hair 
and  beard;  he  beheld  in  front  of  him  the  road 
homeward,  gleaming  white,  straight  as  an  arrow; 
he  beheld  in  the  sky  innumerable  stars,'  which 
illuminated  his  path,  and  like  a  lion  he  stepped  out 
powerfully  and  alertly,  so  that  when  the  rising 
sun  lighted  up  with  its  moistly-crimson  rays  the 
gallant  fellow  who  had  just  been  driven  to  ex- 
tremities, three-and-thirty  versts  already  lay  be- 
tween him  and  Moscow.  .  .  . 

At  the  end  of  two  days  he  was  at  home  in  his 
own  little  cottage,  to  the  great  amazement  of  the 
soldier's  wife  who  had  removed  thither.  After 
praying  before  the  holy  pictures,  he  immediately 
betook  himself  to  the  overseer.  The  overseer  was 
astounded  at  first;  but  the  haying  was  only  just 
beginning.  Gerasim,  being  a  capital  workman, 
immediately  had  a  scythe  put  into  his  hand — 

251 


мими 

and  he  went  off  to  mow  as  of  yore,  to  mow  in 
such  fashion  that  the  peasants  simply  sweated 
through  and  through  as  they  watched  his  swings 
and  strokes.  .  .  . 

But  in  Moscow,  on  the  day  following  Gera- 
sim's  flight,  they  discovered  it.  They  went  into 
his  room,  ransacked  it,  and  told  Gavrila.  The 
latter  came,  made  an  inspection,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  decided  that  the  dumb  man  had 
either  run  away  or  drowned  himself  along  with 
his  stupid  dog.  The  police  were  informed,  and 
the  matter  was  reported  to  the  mistress.  The 
mistress  flew  into  a  rage,  fell  to  weeping,  or- 
dered him  to  be  hunted  up  at  any  cost,  asserted 
that  she  had  never  ordered  the  dog  to  be  made 
away  with,  and,  at  last,  so  berated  Gavrila, 
that  the  latter  did  nothing  all  day  but  shake 
his  head  and  add:  "Well!"  until  Uncle  Tail 
brought  him  to  his  senses  by  saying  to  him: 
"We-ell!"  At  last  news  came  from  the  vil- 
lage of  Gerasim's  arrival  there.  The  mistress 
calmed  down  somewhat;  at  first  she  was  minded 
to  issue  an  order  demanding  his  immediate  re- 
turn to  Moscow,  but  afterward  she  announced 
that  she  wanted  nothing  to  do  with  so  ungrateful 
a  man.  Moreover,  she  died  herself  soon  after, 
and  her  heirs  had  other  things  to  think  about  be- 
sides Gerasim ;  and  they  dismissed  the  rest  of  their 
mother's  serfs  on  quit-rent. 

And  Gerasim  is  living  yet,  poor,  wretched  f el- 

252 


мими 

low,  in  his  lonely  hut ;  he  is  healthy  and  powerful 
as  of  yore,  and,  as  of  yore,  he  does  the  work  of 
four  men,  and,  as  of  yore,  he  is  staid  and  dignified. 
But  the  neighbours  have  noticed  that  ever  since 
his  return  from  Moscow  he  has  entirely  ceased 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  women,  he  does  not 
even  look  at  them,  and  he  keeps  not  a  single  dog 
on  his  premises. — "  However," — say  the  pea- 
sants,— "  't  is  lucky  for  him  that  he  needs  no  wo- 
man; and  as  for  a  dog — what  should  he  do  with 
a  dog?  you  could  n't  drag  a  thief  into  his  yard 
with  a  noose!"  Such  is  the  fame  of  the  dumb 
man's  heroic  strength. 


253 


THE  INN 

(1852) 


THE  INN 

ON  the  great  B***  highway,  almost  equidis- 
tant from  the  two  county  towns  throvigh 
лvhich  it  passes,  there  was  still  standing,  not  long 
since,  a  spacious  inn,  very  well  known  to  drivers 
of  troika-teams,  to  freight-sledge  peasants,  to 
merchants'  clerks,  to  traders  of  the  petty -burgher 
class,  and,  in  general,  to  all  the  numerous  and 
varied  travellers,  who  at  all  seasons  of  the  year 
roll  along  our  roads.  Everybody  used  to  drop 
in  at  this  inn;  except  only  some  landed  proprie- 
tor's carriage,  drawn  by  six  home-bred  horses, 
would  ghde  solemnly  past,  which,  however,  did 
not  prevent  the  coachman  and  the  lackey  on  the 
foot-board  from  looking  with  particular  feeling 
and  attention  at  the  f)orch  but  too  familiar  to 
them ;  or  some  very  poor  fellow,  in  a  rickety  cart, 
with  fifteen  kopeks  in  the  purse  stuffed  into  his 
bosom,  on  coming  to  the  fine  inn,  would  urge  on 
his  weak  nag,  hastening  to  his  night's  lodging  in 
the  suburb  on  the  great  highway,  to  the  house  of 
the  peasant-host,  where  you  will  find  nothing  ex- 
cept hay  and  bread,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  will 
not  be  obliged  to  pay  a  kopek  too  much. 

In  addition  to  its  advantageous  situation,  the 

257 


THE  INN 

inn  of  which  we  have  just  spoken  possessed  many- 
attractions:  capital  water  in  two  deep  wells  with 
creaking  wheels  and  iron  buckets  on  chains;  a 
spacious  stable-yard  with  plenty  of  board  sheds 
on  stout  pillars ;  an  abundant  supply  of  good  oats 
in  the  cellar ;  a  warm  house,  with  a  huge  Russian 
stove,  into  which,  as  upon  the  shoulders  of  an 
epic  hero,  long  logs  were  thrust ;  two  fairly-clean 
little  chambers  with  reddish-lilac  paper  on  the 
луа1Ь  somewhat  tattered  at  the  bottom,  with  a 
painted  wooden  divan,  chairs  to  match,  and  two 
pots  of  geranium  in  the  windows,  which,  how- 
ever, were  never  washed  and  were  dim  with  the 
dust  of  many  j^ears.  This  inn  oiFered  other  com- 
forts:— the  blacksmith's  shop  was  near  at  hand, 
and  the  mill  was  situated  almost  alongside  of  it; 
in  conclusion,  good  food  was  to  be  had  in  it, 
thanks  to  the  fat  and  rosy-cheeked  peasant-wo- 
man who  was  the  cook,  and  who  prepared  the 
viands  in  a  savoury  manner  and  with  plenty  of 
fat,  and  was  not  stingy  of  her  stores ;  the  nearest 
dram-shop  was  only  half  a  verst  distant ;  the  land- 
lord kept  snuff,  which,  although  mixed  with 
ashes,  was  extremely  heady,  and  tickled  the  nose 
agreeably:  in  a  word,  there  were  many  reasons 
луЬу  guests  of  ел^егу  sort  were  not  lacking  in 
that  inn.  Travellers  had  taken  a  fancy  to  it — that 
is  the  principal  thing;  лvithout  that,  as  is  well 
known,  no  business  will  thrive;  and  it  was  liked 
most  of  all  because,  as  people  said  in  the  country- 

258 


THE  INN 

side,  the  landlord  himself  was  very  lucky  and  suc- 
ceeded in  all  his  enterprises,  although  he  little 
deserved  his  luck,  and  it  was  evident  that  if  a 
man  is  destined  to  be  lucky  he  will  be. 

This  landlord  was  a  petty  burgher,  Naiim  Iva- 
noff  by  name.  He  was  of  medium  stature,  thick- 
set, stooping  and  broad-shouldered;  he  had  a 
large,  round  head,  hair  which  was  wavy  and  al- 
ready grizzled,  although  in  appearance  he  was  not 
over  forty  years  of  age;  a  plump  and  rosy  face, 
a  low,  but  white  and  smooth  brow,  and  small, 
bright  blue  eyes,  with  which  he  gazed  forth  very 
strangely — askance,  and,  at  the  same  time,  inso- 
lently, which  is  a  combination  rarely  encountered. 
He  always  held  his  head  in  a  drooping  position, 
and  turned  it  with  difficulty,  perhaps  because  his 
neck  was  very  short;  he  walked  briskly  and  did 
not  swing  his  arms,  but  opened  his  clenched  fists 
as  he  Avalked.  When  he  smiled, — and  he  smiled 
frequently,  but  without  laughter,  as  though  to 
himself, — his  large  lips  moved  apart  in  an  un- 
pleasant way,  and  displayed  a  row  of  compact 
and  dazzling  teeth.  He  spoke  abruptly,  and 
with  a  certain  surly  sound  in  his  voice.  He 
shaved  off  his  beard,  but  did  not  adopt  the  for- 
eign dress.  His  garments  consisted  of  a  long, 
extremely-threadbare  kaftan,  ample  bag-trousers, 
and  shoes  worn  on  the  bare  feet.  He  often  ab- 
sented himself  from  home  on  business, — and  he 
had  a  great  deal  of  business:  he  was  a  jobber  of 

259 


THE  INN 

horses,  he  hired  land,  he  raised  vegetables  for  the 
market,  he  purchased  gardens,  and  in  general  oc- 
cupied himself  with  various  commercial  specula- 
tions,— but  his  absences  never  lasted  long;  like  the 
hawk,  to  whom  in  particular,  especially  as  to  the 
expression  of  his  eyes,  he  bore  a  strong  resem- 
blance, he  kept  returning  to  his  nest.  He  under- 
stood how  to  keep  that  nest  in  order;  he  kept 
track  of  everything,  he  heard  everything,  and 
gave  orders  about  everything;  he  dealt  out,  he 
served  out,  and  calculated  everything  himself, 
and  while  he  did  not  reduce  his  price  a  kopek  to 
any  one,  yet  he  did  not  overcharge. 

The  lodgers  did  not  enter  into  conversation 
with  him,  and  he  himself  was  not  fond  of  wasting 
words  without  cause.  "  I  need  your  money,  and 
you  need  my  victuals,"  he  was  wont  to  explain, 
as  though  he  were  tearing  off  each  separate  word : 
"  you  and  I  have  n't  got  to  stand  godparents  to 
a  child  and  become  cronies;  the  traveller  has 
eaten,  I  have  fed  him  his  fill,  let  him  not  outstay 
his  welcome.  And  if  he  is  sleepy,  then  let  him 
sleep,  not  chatter."  He  kept  sturdy  and  healthy, 
but  tame  and  submissive  labourers;  they  were 
extremely  afraid  of  him.  He  never  took  a  drop 
of  intoxicating  liquor  into  his  mouth,  but  he  gave 
each  of  them  ten  kopeks  for  vodka  on  festival 
days;  on  other  days  they  did  not  dare  to  drink. 
People  like  Naiim  speedily  grow  rich ;  .  .  .  .  but 
Naum  IvanofF  had  not  reached  the  brilliant  con- 

260 


THE  INN 

dition  in  which  he  found  himself— and  he  was 
reckoned  to  be  worth  fortj^  or  fifty  thousand 
rubles — bj^  straightforward  ways.  .  .  . 

Twenty  years  previous  to  the  date  at  which  we 
have  set  the  beginning  of  our  story,  an  inn  existed 
on  that  same  site  upon  the  highway.  Truth  to 
tell,  it  had  not  that  dark-red  plank  roof  which 
imparted  to  Naum  IvanofF's  house  the  aspect  of 
a  nobleman's  manor-house;  and  it  was  poorer  in 
its  construction,  and  the  sheds  in  the  stable-yard 
were  thatched,  and  the  walls  were  made  of  wat- 
tled boughs  instead  of  boards;  neither  was  it 
distinguished  by  a  triangular  Greek  pediment 
on  turned  columns;  but  it  was  a  very  decent 
sort  of  inn,  nevertheless,— spacious,  solid,  and 
warm, — and  travellers  gladly  frequented  it.  Its 
landlord  at  that  time  was  not  Naum  IvanofF,  but 
a  certain  Akim  Semyonoff,  the  serf  of  a  neigh- 
bouring landed  proprietress,  Lizaveta  Prokho- 
rovna  Kuntze — the  widow  of  a  staff-officer. 
This  Akim  was  an  intelligent  peasant,  with  good 
business  capacity,  who,  having  started  with  two 
wretched  little  nags  as  a  carrier,  in  his  youth,  re- 
turned a  year  later  with  three  good  horses,  and 
from  that  time  forth  spent  the  greater  part  of  his 
life  in  roaming  along  the  highways,  visited  Kazan 
and  Odessa,  Orenburg  and  Warsaw,  and  went 
abroad  to  "  Lipetzk,"  ^  and  travelled  toward  the 
last  with  two  troikas  of  huge  and  powerful  stal- 

1  Leipzig. 

261 


THE  INN 

lions  harnessed  to  two  enormous  carts.  Whether 
it  was  that  he  became  bored  by  this  homeless, 
roving  life,  or  whether  he  was  seized  with  the 
desire  to  set  up  a  family  (in  one  of  his  absences 
his  wife  had  died;  the  children  which  he  had  had 
died  also) ,  at  all  events  he  decided,  at  last,  to 
abandon  his  former  avocation  and  set  up  an  inn. 

With  the  permission  of  his  mistress,  he  estab- 
lished himself  on  the  highway,  purchased  in  her 
name  half  a  desyatina  ^  of  land,  and  erected 
thereon  an  inn.  The  venture  proved  a  success. 
He  had  more  than  enough  money  for  the  installa- 
tion; the  experience  which  he  had  acquired  in  his 
prolonged  wanderings  to  all  parts  of  Russia  was 
of  the  greatest  advantage  to  him:  he  knew  how 
to  please  travellers,  especially  men  of  his  own 
former  calling, — three-horse -team  carriers, — with 
many  of  whom  he  was  personally  acquainted,  and 
whose  patronage  is  particularly  valued  by  the 
tavern-keepers:  so  much  do  these  people  eat  and 
consume  for  themselves  and  their  robust  horses. 
Akim's  inn  became  known  for  hundreds  of  versts 
round  about.  .  .  .  People  were  even  fonder  of 
patronising  him  than  they  лvere  of  patronising 
Naiim,  who  afterward  succeeded  him,  although 
Akim  was  far  from  being  comparable  to  Naiim 
in  his  knowledge  of  the  landlord's  business. 

Akim  had  everything  established  on  the  old- 

1 A  desyatina  is  2.70  acres.      He  was  obliged  to  buy  the  land  in  his 
owner's  name:  serfs  could  not  hold  landed  property. — Traxslatoe. 

262 


THE  INN 

tashioned  footing, — warm  but  not  quite  clean; 
and  it  sometimes  happened  that  his  oats  turned 
out  to  be  light,  or  damp,  and  the  food  also  was 
prepared  in  rather  indifferent  fashion;  such  vic- 
tuals were  sometimes  served  on  his  table  as  had 
been  better  left  in  the  oven  for  good,  and  that 
not  because  he  was  stingy  with  material,  but  just 
because  it  happened  so — his  wife  had  not  looked 
after  things.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  ready 
to  deduct  from  the  price,  and  he  would  even  not 
refuse  to  give  credit.  In  a  word,  he  was  a  good 
man  and  an  amiable  landlord.  He  was  liberal 
also  with  his  conversation  and  standing  treat; 
over  the  samovar  he  would  sometimes  get  to  oab- 
bling  so  that  you  would  prick  up  your  ears,  es- 
pecially when  he  began  to  talk  about  Peter,^ 
about  the  Tcherkessian  steppes,  or  about  foreign 
parts;  well,  and  as  a  matter  of  course,  he  was 
fond  of  drinking  with  a  nice  man,  only  not  to 
excess,  and  more  for  the  sake  of  sociability — so 
travellers  said  of  him. 

Merchants  bore  great  good-will  toward  him, 
as,  in  general,  did  all  those  people  who  call  them- 
selves old-fashioned — those  people  who  do  not 
set  out  on  a  journey  without  having  girded 
themseh^es  and  who  do  not  enter  a  room  with- 
out crossing  themselves,^  and  who  will  not  en- 
ter into  conversation  лvith  a  man  without  hav- 

^St.  Petersburg. —Translator. 
2  To  the  holy  pictures. — Teanslatoe. 

263 


THE  INN 

ing  preliminarily  bidden  him  "  good  morning." 
Akim's  mere  personal  appearance  disposed  one 
in  his  favour;  he  was  tall,  rather  gaunt,  but 
very  well  built,  even  in  his  mature  years;  he 
had  a  long,  comely  and  regular  face,  a  high,  open 
brow,  a  thin,  straight  nose,  and  small  lips.  The 
glance  of  his  prominent  brown  eyes  fairly  beamed 
лvith  gentle  cordiality,  his  thin,  soft  hair  curled  in 
rings  about  his  neck:  very  little  of  it  remained 
on  the  crown  of  his  head.  The  sound  of  Akim's 
voice  was  very  agreeable,  although  weak;  in  his 
3^outh  he  had  been  a  capital  singer,  but  his  long 
journeys  in  the  open  air,  in  winter,  had  impaired 
his  lungs.  On  the  other  hand,  he  spoke  very  flu- 
ently and  sweetly.  AVhen  he  laughed,  ray-like 
wrinkles,  very  pleasant  to  behold,  spread  them- 
selves out  around  his  eyes; — such  wrinkles  are  to 
be  seen  only  in  kind  people.  Akim's  movements 
were  generally  slow  and  not  devoid  of  a  certain 
self-confidence  and  sedate  courtesy,  as  was  befit- 
ting a  man  of  experience  who  had  seen  much  in 
his  day. 

In  fact,  Akim  would  have  been  all  right,— or, 
as  they  called  him  even  in  the  manor-house, 
whither  he  was  wont  to  go  frequently,  as  well  as 
unfailingly  on  Sundaj^s  after  the  morning  service 
in  church,  Akim  Semyonovitch,^ — would  have 
been  all  right  in  every  respect  had  he  not  had  one 
failing,  which  has  ruined  many  men  on  this  earth, 

1  See  note  on  p.  273.— Translatoe. 

264 


THE  INN 

and  in  the  end  ruined  him  also — a  weakness  for 
the  female  sex.  Akim's  amorousness  went  to  ex- 
tremes: his  heart  was  utterly  unable  to  resist  a 
feminine  glance;  he  melted  in  it,  as  the  first  au- 
tumnal snow  melts  in  the  sun  ....  and  he  had 
to  pay  dearly  for  his  superfluous  sensibility. 

In  the  course  of  the  first  year  after  he  had  set- 
tled down  upon  the  highway,  Akim  was  so  oc- 
cupied with  the  building  of  his  inn,  with  the  in- 
stallation of  his  establishment,  and  with  all  the 
worries  which  are  inseparable  from  all  new  house- 
holds, that  he  positively  had  not  time  to  think 
of  women,  and  if  any  sinful  thoughts  did  enter 
his  head,  he  promptly  expelled  them  by  the  peru- 
sal of  divers  holy  books,  for  which  he  cherished  a 
great  respect  (he  had  taught  himself  to  read  and 
write  during  his  first  trip  as  carrier) ,  by  chanting 
the  Psalms  in  an  undertone,  or  by  some  other  pi- 
ous occupation.  Moreover,  he  was  already  in  his 
forty-sixth  year, — and  at  that  age  all  passions 
sensibly  calm  down  and  grow  cool;  and  the  time 
for  marrying  was  past.  Akim  himself  had  begun 
to  think  that  that  folly,  as  he  expressed  it,  had 
broken  loose  from  him  .  .  .  but  evidently  no  man 
can  escape  his  fate. 

Akim's  former  owner,  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna 
Kuntze,  who  had  been  left  a  widow  by  her  hus- 
band, a  stafl*-officer  of  German  extraction,  was 
herself  a  native  of  the  town  of  Mittau,  where  she 
had  passed  the  early  days  of  her  childhood,  and 

265 


THE  INN 

where  she  still  had  a  very  numerous  and  needy 
family,  concerning  whom,  however,  she  troubled 
herself  very  little,  especially  since  one  of  her  bro- 
thers, an  officer  in  an  army  infantry  regiment, 
had  unexpectedly  presented  himself  at  her  house 
and  on  the  following  day  had  raised  such  an  up- 
roar that  he  had  all  but  thrashed  the  mistress  of 
the  house  herself,  and  had  addressed  her,  into  the 
bargain,  as  "  du  Lumpenmamsell! "  while  on  the 
preceding  evening  he  had  himself  called  her  in 
broken  Russian:  "  sister  and  benefactress."  Liza- 
veta  Prokhorovna  hardly  ever  left  the  nice  little 
estate  acquired  by  the  efforts  of  her  spouse,  who 
had  been  an  architect ;  ^  she  herself  managed  it, 
and  managed  it  far  from  badly.  Lizaveta  Pro- 
khorovna did  not  let  slip  the  smallest  source  of 
profit;  she  derived  advantage  to  herself  from 
everything;  and  in  this  point,  as  well  as  in  that 
of  remarkable  cleverness  in  making  one  kopek 
serve  instead  of  two,  her  German  nationality  be- 
trayed itself;  in  everything  else  she  had  become 
extremely  Russified.  She  had  a  considerable 
number  of  domestic  serfs ;  in  particular,  she  kept 
a  great  many  maids,  who,  however,  did  not  eat  the 
bread  of  idleness :  from  morning  until  night  their 
backs  were  bowed  over  work.^     She  was  fond  of 

^  He  had  been  a  staff-officer  in  the  civil  service,  according  to  Peter 
the  Great's  Table  of  Ranks.  —Translator. 

2  These  numerous  maids,  in  the  old  serf  days,  were  employed  in 
making  the  most  exquisite  linen,  lace,  embroidery,  and  so  forth. — 
Traxslator. 

266 


THE  INN 

driving  out  in  her  carriage  with  hveried  lackeys 
on  the  foot-board;  she  was  fond  of  having  peo- 
ple retail  gossip  to  her  and  play  the  sycophant; 
and  she  herself  was  a  first-rate  gossip;  she  was 
fond  of  loading  a  man  down  with  her  favours, 
and  suddenly  stunning  him  with  disgrace— in 
a  word,  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  conducted  herself 
exactly  like  a  nobly-born  dame. — She  favoured 
Akim,— he  paid  her  a  good  round  quit-rent  with 
punctuality, — she  chatted  graciously  with  him, 
and  even,  in  jest,  invited  him  to  be  her  guest  .  .  . 
but  it  лvas  precisely  in  the  manor-house  that  ca- 
lamity awaited  Akim. 

Among  the  number  of  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna's 
maids,  there  was  one  young  girl  of  twenty,  an 
orphan,  Dunyasha  by  name.  She  was  not  ill- 
favoured,  was  well  formed  and  clever;  her  fea- 
tures, although  not  regular,  were  calculated  to 
please ;  her  fresh  complexion,  her  thick,  fair  hair, 
her  red  lips,  and  a  certain  dashing,  half -sneer- 
ing, half -challenging  expression  of  face,  were 
all  quite  charming  in  their  way.  Moreover,  in 
spite  of  her  orphaned  state,  she  bore  herself, 
staidly,  almost  haughtily ;  she  was  descended  from 
an  ancient  line  of  house-serfs;  her  late  father, 
Arefy,  had  been  major-domo  for  thirty  years, 
and  her  grandfather,  Stepan,  had  served  as  valet 
to  a  gentleman  long  since  deceased,  a  sergeant 
of  the  Guards  and  a  prince.  She  dressed  neatly, 
and  was  proud  of  her  hands,  which  really  were  ex- 

267 


THE  INN 

tremely  handsome.  Dunyasha  showed  great  dis- 
dain for  all  her  admirers,  listened  to  their  sweet 
sayings  with  a  conceited  smile,  and  if  she  an- 
swered them,  it  was  chiefly  by  exclamation  only, 
in  the  nature  of :  "  Yes!  certainly!  catch  me  doing 
that!  the  idea!  "...  These  exclamations  scarcely 
ever  left  her  tongue.  Dunyasha  had  spent  about 
three  years  in  Moscow,  under  instruction,  where 
she  had  acquired  those  peculiar  grimaces  and 
manners  which  characterise  chambermaids  who 
have  sojourned  in  the  capitals.  People  spoke  of 
her  as  a  conceited  girl  (a  great  encomium  in  the 
mouths  of  domestics)  who,  although  she  had  seen 
much  of  life,  had  not  lowered  her  dignity.  She 
sewed  far  from  badly,  moreover;  but,  neverthe- 
less, Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  had  no  particular 
liking  for  her,  thanks  to  the  head  maid,  Kiril- 
lovna,  a  woman  no  longer  young,  sly,  and  fond  of 
intrigue.  Kirillovna  profited  by  her  great  in- 
fluence over  her  mistress,  and  contrived  very  art- 
fully to  keep  rivals  out  of  the  way. 

And  it  was  with  this  Dunyasha  that  Akim  fell 
in  love!  And  in  a  way  such  as  he  had  never 
loved  before.  He  beheld  her  for  the  first  time 
in  church;  she  had  only  just  returned  from  Mos- 
cow; ....  then  he  met  her  several  times  in  the 
manor-house;  at  last  he  spent  a  whole  evening 
with  her  at  the  overseer's,  whither  he  had  been 
invited  to  tea,  along  with  other  honourable  per- 
sonages.     The  house-serfs   did   not   look   down 

268 


THE  INN 

on  him,  althougli  he  did  not  belong  to  their  social 
class,  and  wore  a  beard ;  ^  but  he  was  a  cultured 
man,  could  read  and  write,  and — chief  thing  of 
all — he  had  money;  moreover,  he  did  not  dress 
in  peasant  fashion,  but  wore  a  long  kaftan  of 
black  cloth,  boots  of  dressed  calf -leather,  and  a 
small  kerchief  round  his  neck.  To  tell  the  truth, 
some  of  the  house-serfs  did  make  remarks  among 
themselves  to  the  effect,  "  't  is  plain,  neverthe- 
less, that  he  is  not  one  of  us,"  but  to  his  face  they 
almost  flattered  him.  That  evening  at  the  over- 
seer's, Dunyasha  completed  the  conquest  of 
Akim's  amorous  heart,  although  she  positively  did 
not  reply  by  a  single  word  to  all  his  ingratiating 
speeches,  and  only  now  and  then  cast  a  side- 
long glance  at  him,  as  though  astonished  at  see- 
ing that  peasant  there.  All  this  only  inflamed 
Akim  the  more.  He  went  ofl"  home,  thought,  and 
thought,  and  made  up  his  mind  to  obtain  her 
hand.  ...  So  thoroughly  had  she  "  bewitched  " 
him.  But  how  shall  we  describe  Dunyasha's 
wrath  and  indignation  when,  five  days  later,  Ki- 
rfllovna,  afl*ectionately  calling  her  into  her  room, 
announced  to  her  that  Akim  (and  evidently  he 
had  understood  how  to  set  about  the  business) , 
— that  that  beard-wearer  and  peasant  Akim,  to 
sit  beside  whom  she  had  regarded  as  an  insult, — 
was  courting  her! 

At  first  Dunyasha  flushed  hot  all  over,  then  she 

^The  beard  was  regarded  as  a  mark  of  peasant  origin.— Translator. 

269 


THE  INN 

emitted  a  forced  laugh,  then  fell  to  weeping; 
but  Kirillovna  conducted  the  attack  so  artfully, 
so  clearly  made  her  feel  her  position  in  the  house, 
so  cleverly  hinted  at  Akim's  decent  appearance, 
wealth,  and  blind  devotion,  and,  in  conclusion,  so 
significantly  alluded  to  the  mistress's  own  wishes, 
that  Dunyasha  left  the  room  with  hesitation 
depicted  on  her  face,  and  encountering  Akim, 
merely  gazed  intently  into  his  eyes,  but  did  not 
turn  away.  The  fabulously  lavish  gifts  of  this 
enamoured  man  dispelled  her  last  doubts.  .  .  . 
Lizaveta  Prokhorovna,  to  whom  Akim,  in  his  joy, 
had  presented  a  hundred  peaches  on  a  large  sil- 
ver salver,  gave  her  consent  to  his  marriage  with 
Dunyasha,  and  the  wedding  took  place.  Akim 
spared  no  expense — and  the  bride,  who  on  the 
eve  of  the  wedding  had  sat  in  the  maids'  room  like 
one  on  the  verge  of  expiring,  and  had  done  no- 
thing but  cry  on  the  very  morning  of  the  wed- 
ding, while  Kirillovna  was  dressing  her  for  the 
ceremony,  was  speedily  comforted.  .  .  .  Her 
mistress  gave  her  her  own  shawl  to  wear  in  church 
— and  that  very  same  day  Akim  gave  her  another 
of  the  same  sort,  only  almost  better. 

So  then  Akim  married,  and  transported  his 
young  wife  to  his  inn.  .  .  .  They  began  to  live. 
Dunyasha  proved  to  be  a  bad  housekeeper,  a 
poor  helpmeet  for  her  husband.  She  never  looked 
after  anything,  she  grieved,  was  bored,  unless 
some  passing  officer  was  attentive  to  her  and  paid 

270 


THE  INN 

court  to  her,  as  he  sat  behind  the  capacious 
samovar;  she  frequently  absented  herself,  some- 
times going  to  the  town  to  shop,  sometimes  to  the 
mistress's  manor-house,  which  lay  four  versts  dis- 
tant from  the  inn.  In  the  manor-house  she  re- 
freshed herself ;  there  people  of  her  own  sort  sur- 
rounded her;  the  maids  envied  her  smart  attire; 
Kirillovna  treated  her  to  tea;  Lizaveta  Prokho- 
rovna  herself  chatted  with  her.  .  .  .  But  even 
these  visits  did  not  pass  off  without  bitter  emo- 
tions for  Dunyasha.  .  .  .  For  instance,  being  a 
house-serf,  she  was  not  allowed  to  wear  a  bonnet, 
and  was  obliged  to  muffle  her  head  up  in  a  ker- 
chief .  .  .  .  "  like  a  merchant's  wife,"  as  the 
crafty  Kirillovna  said  to  her.  ..."  Like  the 
wife  of  a  petty  burgher,"  thought  Dunyasha  to 
herself. 

More  than  once  there  recurred  to  Akim's  mind 
the  words  of  his  only  relative,  an  aged  uncle,  an 
inveterate  peasant,  a  man  without  family  or  land : 
"  Well,  brother,  Akimushka,"  he  had  said  to  him, 
when  he  met  him  in  the  street,  "  I  have  heard  that 
thou  'rt  a-courting.  ..." 

"  Well,  yes,  I  am;  what  of  it? " 

"  Ekh,  Akim,  Akim!  Thou  'rt  no  mate  for  us 
peasants  now,  there  's  no  denying  it ;  neither  is  she 
a  mate  for  thee." 

"  But  why  is  n't  she  a  mate  for  me?  " 

"  Why,  for  this  reason,  at  least," — returned  the 
other,  pointing  to  Akim's  beard,  which  he,   to 

271 


THE  INN 

please  his  bride,  had  begun  to  clip  close — he 
would  not  consent  to  shave  it  oif  entirely.  .  .  . 
Akim  dropped  his  eyes ;  and  the  old  man  turned 
away,  wrapped  about  him  the  skirts  of  his  sheep- 
skin coat,  луЬ1сЬ  was  ragged  on  the  shoulders,  and 
went  his  way,  shaking  his  head. 

Yes,  more  than  once  did  Akim  grow  pensive, 
grunt  and  sigh.  .  .  .  But  his  love  for  his  pretty 
wife  did  not  diminish;  he  was  proud  of  her, 
especially  when  he  compared  her,  not  only  with 
the  other  peasant  women,  or  with  his  former 
wife,  whom  he  had  married  at  the  age  of  sixteen, 
but  with  the  other  maids  of  the  house-serf  class: 
as  much  as  to  say:  "  Just  see  what  sort  of  a  bird 
we  've  captured!"  ....  Her  slightest  caress 
afforded  him  great  pleasure.  .  .  "  Perhaps,"  he 
thought  to  himself,  "  she  '11  get  used  to  me,  she  '11 
grow  accustomed  to  her  new  life.  .  ."  Moreover, 
she  conducted  herself  very  well,  and  no  one  could 
say  an  evil  word  concerning  her. 

Several  years  passed  in  this  manner.  Dunya- 
sha  really  did  end  by  becoming  used  to  her  exis- 
tence. The  older  Akim  grew,  the  more  attached 
he  became  to  her,  and  the  more  he  trusted  her ;  her 
friends,  who  had  married  men  not  of  the  peasant 
class,  suffered  dire  need,  or  were  in  distress,  or 
had  fallen  into  evil  hands.  .  .  .  But  Akim  con- 
tinued to  wax  richer  and  richer.  He  succeeded  in 
everything — he  was  lucky;  only  one  thing  grieved 
him :  God  had  not  given  him  any  children.    Dun- 

272 


THE  INN 

yasha  was  already  in  her  twenty-fifth  year ;  every 
one  had  come  to  call  her  Avdotya  Arefyevna.^ 
Nevertheless,  she  had  not  become  a  good  house- 
wife.— But  she  had  come  to  love  her  home,  she 
attended  to  the  stores  of  provisions,  she  looked 
after  the  servant-maids.  .  .  .  Truth  to  tell,  she 
did  all  this  in  an  indifferent  way,  and  did  not  ex- 
ercise the  proper  oversight  as  to  cleanliness  and 
order;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  in  the  principal 
room  of  the  inn,  alongside  the  portrait  of  Akim, 
hung  her  portrait,  painted  in  oils  and  ordered 
by  her  from  a  home-bred  artist,  the  son  of  the 
parish  deacon. — She  was  represented  in  a  лvhite 
gown  and  a  yellow  shawl,  with  six  rows  of  large 
pearls  on  her  neck,  long  earrings  in  her  ears,  and 
rings  on  every  finger.  .  .  It  was  possible  to  recog- 
nise her,— although  the  painter  had  depicted  her 
as  extremely  corpulent  and  rosy-cheeked,  and 
had  painted  her  eyes  black  instead  of  grey,  and 
even  a  trifle  squinting.  .  .  He  had  not  succeeded 
at  all  with  Akim :  the  latter  had,  somehow,  turned 
out  very  dark — a  la  Rembrandt,— so  that  a  trav- 
eller would  sometimes  step  up  and  stare  at  it,  and 
merely  bellow  a  bit. 

Avdotya  had  begun  to  dress  with  a  good  deal 
of  carelessness ;  she  would  throw  a  large  kerchief 
over  her  shoulders,  and  the  gown  under  it  would 


^  Neither  field-serfs  nor  the  superior  house-serfs  were  addressed  by 
their  patronymic  (like  the  nobility).  Duny^sha  is  the  diminutive 
of  Avddty. — Translator. 

273 


THE  INN 

fit  anyhow ;  indolence  had  taken  possession  of  her, 
that  sighing,  languid,  sleepy  indolence  to  which 
Russians  are  but  too  greatly  inclined,  especially 
when  their  existence  is  assured 

Nevertheless,  the  affairs  of  Akim  and  his  wife 
throve  very  well ;  they  lived  in  concord,  and  bore 
the  reputation  of  being  an  exemplary  married 
pair.  But,  like  the  squirrel  which  is  cleaning  its 
nose  at  the  very  moment  when  the  arrow  is 
aimed  at  it,  a  man  has  no  foreboding  of  his  own 
disaster — and  suddenly  down  he  crashes,  as 
though  on  the  ice.  ... 

One  autumn  evening  a  merchant  with  dry- 
goods  stopped  at  Akim's  inn.  He  was  making 
his  way,  by  devious  roads,  with  two  loaded 
kibitkas,  from  Moscow  to  KharkofF;  he  was 
one  of  those  peddlers  whom  the  wives  and 
daughters  of  landed  proprietors  sometimes  await 
with  so  much  impatience.  With  this  peddler,  al- 
ready an  elderly  man,  were  travelling  two  com- 
rades, or,  to  put  it  more  accurately,  two  work- 
men— one  pale,  thin,  hump-backed,  the  other  a 
stately,  handsome  young  fellow  of  twenty.  They 
ordered  supper,  then  sat  down  to  drink  tea;  the 
peddler  invited  the  landlord  and  landlady  to 
drink  a  cup  with  him — and  they  did  not  re- 
fuse. A  conversation  was  speedily  under  way 
between  the  two  old  men  (Akim  had  seen  his 
fifty -sixth  birthday)  ;  the  peddler  was  making  in- 
quiries concerning  the  neighbouring  landed  pro- 

274 


THE  INN 

prietors,— and  no  one  could  impart  to  him  all 
necessary  details  about  them  better  than  could 
Akim.  The  hump-backed  labourer  kept  continu- 
ally going  out  to  look  at  the  carts,  and  at  last  took 
himself  off  to  sleep ;  Avdotya  was  left  to  chat  with 
the  other  labourer.  .  .  .  She  sat  beside  him  and 
talked  little,  and  chiefly  Hstened  to  what  he  nar- 
rated to  her;  but  evidently  his  remarks  pleased 
her;  her  face  grew  animated,  a  flush  played  over 
her  cheeks,  and  she  laughed  quite  often  and 
readily.  The  young  labourer  sat  almost  motion- 
less, with  his  curly  head  bent  toward  the  table ;  he 
spoke  softly  without  raising  his  voice,  and  without 
haste;  on  the  other  hand  his  eyes,  not  large,  but 
audaciously  bright  and  blue,  fairly  bored  Into 
Avdotya;  at  first  she  turned  away  from  them, 
then  she  began  to  gaze  into  his  face.  The  young 
fellow's  face  was  as  fresh  and  smooth  as  a  Cri- 
mean apple;  he  smiled  frequently  and  drummed 
his  white  fingers  on  his  white  chin,  already  cov- 
ered with  sparse,  dark  down.  He  expressed  him- 
self after  the  merchant  fashion,  but  with  great 
ease,  and  with  a  certain  careless  self-confidence — 
and  kept  staring  at  her  all  the  while  with  the 
same  insistent  and  insolent  look.  .  .  .  Suddenly 
he  moved  a  little  closer  to  her,  and  without  chang- 
ing the  expression  of  his  face  in  the  least,  he  said 
to  her:  "  Avdotya  Arefyevna,  there  's  nobody  in 
the  лvorld  nicer  than  you;  I  'm  ready  to  die  for 
you,  I  do  believe." 

275 


THE  INN 

Avdotya  laughed  loudly. 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  thee?  " — Akim  asked 
her. 

*'  Why,  this  man  here  is  telling  such  absurd 
things," — she  said,  but  without  any  special  con- 
fusion. 

The  old  peddler  grinned. 

"He,  he,  yes,  ma'am;  that  Naiim  of  mine  is 
such  a  joker,  sir.  But  you  must  n't  listen  to 
him,  ma'am." 

"  Yes,  certainly!  as  if  I  would  listen  to  him," 
— she  replied,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  He,  he,  of  course,  ma'am," — remarked  the 
old  man. — "  Well,  but,"— he  added  in  a  drawl, — 
"  good-bye,  I  'm  much  obliged,  ma'am,  but  now 
't  is  time  to  go  to  roost,  ma'am.  ..."  And  he 
rose  to  his  feet. 

"  And  we  are  much  obliged,  sir,  too,  sir," — said 
Akim  also, — "  for  the  entertainment,  that  is  to 
say;  but  now  we  wish  you  good  night,  sir.  Rise, 
Avdotyushka." 

Avdotya  rose,  as  though  reluctantly,  and  after 
her  Naum  rose  also  ....  and  all  dispersed. 

The  landlord  and  landlady  betook  themselves 
to  the  small,  closet-like  room  which  served  them 
as  a  bedroom.  Akim  set  to  snoring  instantly. 
Avdotya  could  not  get  to  sleep  for  a  long  time. 
.  .  .  At  first  she  lay  still,  with  her  face  turned 
to  the  wall,  then  she  began  to  toss  about  on  the 
hot  feather-bed,  now  throwing  off,  now  drawing 

276 


THE  INN 

up  the  coverlet  ....  then  she  fell  into  a  light 
doze.  All  of  a  sudden,  a  man's  loud  voice  re- 
sounded in  the  yard ;  it  was  singing  some  slow  but 
not  mournful  song,  the  words  of  which  could  not 
be  distinguished.  Avdotya  opened  her  eyes, 
raised  herself  on  her  elbow,  and  began  to  listen. 
.  .  .  The  song  still  went  on.  ...  It  poured 
forth  sonorously  on  the  autumnal  air. 

Akim  raised  his  head. 

"  Who  's  that  singing?  " — he  inquired. 

"  I  don't  know," — she  replied. 

"  He  sings  well," — he  added,  after  a  brief 
pause. — "  Well.  What  a  strong  voice.  I  used  to 
sing  in  my  day," — he  continued, — "  and  I  sang 
well,  but  my  voice  is  ruined.  But  that  's  a  fine 
singer.  It  must  be  that  young  fellow  singing. 
Naum  is  his  name,  I  think." — And  he  turned 
over  on  his  other  side — drew  a  deep  breath,  and 
fell  asleep  again. 

The  voice  did  not  cease  for  a  long  time  there- 
after. .  .  .  Avdotj^a  continued  to  listen  and  lis- 
ten ;  at  last  it  suddenly  broke  off  short,  as  it  were, 
then  uttered  one  more  wild  shout,  and  slowly  died 
away.  Avdotya  crossed  herself,  and  laid  her  head 
on  the  pillow.  .  .  .  Half  an  hour  elapsed.  .  .  . 
She  raised  herself  and  began  softly  to  get  out  of 
bed.  .  .  . 

"  Whither  art  thou  going,  wife? " — Akim 
asked  her  through  his  sleep. 

She  stopped  short. 

277 


THE  INN 

"  To  adjust  the  shrine-lamp,"  ^ — she  answered; 
"  somehow  or  other  I  can't  sleep." 

"  Thou  hadst  better  say  thy  prayers," — stam- 
mered Akim  as  he  fell  asleep. 

Avdotya  went  to  the  shrine-lamp,  began  to  ad- 
just it,  and  incautiously  extinguished  it;  she  re- 
turned and  lay  down  in  bed.    Silence  reigned. 

Early  on  the  following  morning  the  merchant 
set  out  on  his  way  with  his  companions.  Avdotya 
was  sleeping.  Akim  escorted  them  for  about 
half  a  verst;  he  was  obliged  to  go  to  the  mill. 
On  returning  home  he  found  his  wife  already 
dressed,  and  no  longer  alone;  with  her  was  the 
yoimg  fellow  of  the  previous  evening,  Naum. 
They  were  standing  by  the  table,  near  the  win- 
dow, and  talking  together.  On  catching  sight 
of  Akim,  Avdotya  silently  left  the  room,  but 
Naum  said  that  he  had  returned  for  his  master's 
mittens,  which  the  latter  had  forgotten  on  the 
bench,  and  he  also  left  the  room. 

We  shall  now  inform  our  readers  of  that  which 
they,  no  doubt,  have  already  divined  without  our 
aid :  Avdotya  had  fallen  passionately  in  love  with 
Naum.  How  this  could  come  to  pass  so  quickly, 
it  is  difficult  to  explain ;  it  is  all  the  more  difficult, 
in  that,  up  to  that  time,  she  had  behaved  in  an 
irreproachable  manner,  notwithstanding  numer- 
ous opportunities  and  temptations  to  betray  her 

^  It  is  customary  to  have  a  holy  picture,  with  a  shrine-lamp  filled 
with  olive-oil  burning  before  it,  in  bedrooms. —Translator. 

278 


THE  INN 

marital  vows.  Later  on,  when  her  relations  with 
Naum  became  public,  many  persons  in  the  coun- 
tryside declared  that  on  that  very  first  evening 
he  had  put  some  magic  herb  into  her  tea  (peo- 
ple with  us  still  believe  firmly  in  the  efficacy  of 
this  method) ,  and  that  this  was  very  readily  to  be 
discerned  in  Avdotya,  who,  they  said,  very  soon 
thereafter  began  to  grow  thin  and  bored. 

Hoлvever  that  may  be,  at  all  events  Naum  be- 
gan to  be  frequently  seen  at  Akim's  inn.  First, 
he  journeyed  past  with  that  same  merchant,  but 
three  months  later  he  made  his  appearance  alone, 
with  his  own  wares;  then  a  rumour  became  cur- 
rent that  he  had  taken  up  his  residence  in  one 
of  the  near-by  towns  of  the  county,  and  from  that 
time  forth  not  a  week  passed  that  his  stout, 
painted  cart,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  plump  horses 
Avhich  he  drove  himself,  did  not  make  its  appear- 
ance on  the  highway. 

There  was  no  great  friendship  between  him  and 
Akim,  but  no  hostility  between  them  was  appar- 
ent; Akim  paid  no  great  attention  to  him,  and 
knew  nothing  about  him,  except  that  he  was  an 
intelligent  young  fellow,  who  had  started  out 
boldly.  He  did  not  suspect  Avdotya's  real  feel- 
ings, and  continued  to  trust  her  as  before. 

Thus  passed  two  years  more. 

Then,  one  summer  day,  before  dinner,  about 
one  o'clock,  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna,  who  precisely 
during  the  course  of  those  two  years  had  some- 

279 


THE  INN 

how  suddenly  grown  wrinkled  and  sallow,  de- 
spite all  sorts  of  massage,  rouge,  and  powder, — 
Lizaveta  Prokhorovna,  with  her  lap-dog  and  her 
folding  parasol,  strolled  forth  for  a  луа1к  in  her 
neat  little  German  park.  Lightly  rustling  her 
starched  gown,  she  was  walking  with  minc- 
ing steps  along  the  sanded  path,  between  two 
rows  of  dahlias  drawn  up  in  military  array, 
when  suddenly  she  was  overtaken  by  our  old 
acquaintance,  Kirillovna,  who  respectfully  an- 
nounced that  a  certain  merchant  from  B***  de- 
sired to  see  her  on  a  very  important  matter. 
Kirillovna,  as  of  yore,  enjoyed  the  mistress's 
favour  (in  reality,  she  managed  the  estate  of 
Madame  Kuntze),  and  some  time  previously  had 
received  permission  to  wear  a  лvhite  mob-cap, 
which  imparted  still  more  harshness  to  the  thin 
features  of  her  swarthy  face. 

"  A  merchant?  "—inquired  the  lady.  "  What 
does  he  want?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  ma'am,  what  he  wants," — re- 
plied Kirillovna  in  a  wheedling  voice;— "but, 
apparently,  he  wishes  to  purchase  something 
from  you,  ma'am." 

Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  returned  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, seated  herself  in  her  customary  place, 
an  arm-chair  with  a  canopy,  over  which  ivy  me- 
andered prettily,  and  ordered  the  merchant  from 
B***  to  be  summoned. 

Naum  entered,  made  his  bow,  and  halted  at 
the  door. 

280 


THE  INN 

"  I  have  heard  that  you  wish  to  buy  something 
from  me," — began  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna,  and 
thought  to  herself  the  while:— "  What  a  hand- 
some man  this  merchant  is!  " 

"  Exactly  so,  ma'am." 

"  And  precisely  what  is  it?  " 

"  Will  you  not  deign  to  sell  your  inn?  " 

"What  inn?" 

"  Why,  the  one  which  stands  on  the  highway, 
not  far  from  here." 

"  But  that  inn  does  not  belong  to  me.  That  is 
Akim's  inn." 

"  Why  is  n't  it  yours?  It  stands  on  your  land, 
ma'am." 

"  Assuming  that  the  land  is  mine  ....  bought 
in  my  name;  still  the  inn  is  his." 

"  Just  so,  ma'am.  So  then,  won't  you  sell  it 
to  us,  ma'am? " 

"  I  am  to  sell  it?  " 

"  Just  so,  ma'am.  And  we  would  pay  a  good 
price  for  it." 

Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  maintained  silence  for 
a  while. 

"Really,  this  is  strange," — she  began  again; 
"  what  are  you  saying?  But  how  much  would  you 
give?  "—she  added. — "  That  is  to  say,  I  am  not 
asking  for  myself,  but  for  Akim." 

"  Why,  with  all  the  buildings  and,  ma'am,  de- 
pendencies, ma'am  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  and,  of  course, 
with  the  land  attached  to  the  inn,  we  would  give 
two  thousand  rubles,  ma'am." 

281 


THE  INN 

"Two  thousand  rubles!  That  's  very  little," 
— replied  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna. 

"  That 's  the  proper  price,  ma'am." 

"  But,  have  you  talked  it  over  with  Akim?  " 

"  Why  should  we  talk  with  him,  ma'am?  The 
inn  is  yours,  so  we  have  thought  best  to  discuss 
it  with  you,  ma'am." 

"  But  I  have  already  told  you  ....  really, 
this  is  astonishing!  How  is  it  that  you  do  not 
understand  me?  " 

"  Why  don't  we  understand,  ma'am?  We 
do." 

Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  looked  at  Naiim,  Naum 
looked  at  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna. 

"  How  is  it  to  be,  then,  ma'am? " — he  began: 
— "  what  proposal  have  you  to  make  on  your  side, 
that  is  to  say,  ma'am?  " 

"  On  my  side  .  .  .  ."  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna 
fidgeted  about  in  her  easy-chair. — "  In  the  first 
place,  I  tell  you  that  two  thousand  is  not  enough, 
and  in  the  second  place  .  .  .  ." 

"  We  '11  add  a  hundred,  if  you  like." 

Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  rose. 

*'  I  see  that  you  are  talking  at  cross-purposes, 
and  I  have  already  told  you  that  I  cannot  and 
will  not  sell  that  inn.  I  cannot  ....  that  is  to 
say,  I  will  not." 

Naum  smiled  and  made  no  reply  for  a  while. 

"  Well,  as  you  like,  ma'am  .  .  .  ."  he  remarked, 
with  a  slight  shrug  of  the  shoulders;— "  I  will 

282 


THE  INN 

bid  you  good-day,  ma'am." — And  he  made  his 
bow,  and  grasped  the  door-handle. 

Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  turned  toward  him. 

"  However,  .  .  .  .  "  she  said,  with  barely  per- 
ceptible hesitation, — "  you  need  not  go  just  yet." 
—  She  rang  the  bell ;  Kirillovna  made  her  appear- 
ance from  the  boudoir. 

"  Kirillovna,  order  the  servants  to  give  the  mer- 
chant tea. — I  will  see  you  later  on,"— she  added, 
with  a  slight  inclination  of  her  head. 

Naiim  bowed  again,  and  left  the  room  in  com- 
pany with  Kirillovna. 

Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  paced  up  and  down  the 
room  a  couple  of  times,  then  rang  the  bell  again. 
This  time  a  page  entered.  She  ordered  him  to 
summon  Kirillovna.  In  a  few  moments  Kiril- 
lovna entered,  with  barely  a  squeak  of  her  new 
goat's-leather  shoes. 

"  Didst  thou  hear," — began  Lizaveta  Prokho- 
rovna, with  a  constrained  smile, — "  what  that 
merchant  is  proposing  to  me?  Such  a  queer  man, 
really!" 

"  No,  ma'am,  I  did  n't  hear.  .  .  .  What  is  it, 
ma'am?  "—And  Kirillovna  slightly  narrowed  her 
little,  black,  Kalmyk  eyes. 

"  He  wants  to  buy  Akim's  inn  from  me." 

"  And  what  of  that,  ma'am?  " 

"  Why,  seest  thou  ....  But  how  about 
Akim?    I  have  given  it  to  Akim." 

"  And,  good  gracious,  my  lady,  what  is  it  you 
283 


THE  INN 

are  pleased  to  say  ?  Is  n't  that  inn  yours  ?  Are  n't 
we  your  property,  pray?  And  everything  we 
have, — is  n't  that  also  the  property  of  the  mis- 
tress?" 

"  Mercy  me,  what 's  that  thou  'rt  saying,  Ki- 
rillovna?  " — Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  got  out  her 
batiste  handkerchief  and  nervously  blew  her  nose. 
— "  Akim  bought  that  inn  out  of  his  own  money." 

"  Out  of  his  own  money?  And  where  did  he 
get  that  money? — Was  n't  it  through  your  kind- 
ness? And,  then,  see  how  long  he  has  enjoyed 
the  use  of  the  land.  .  .  .  Surely,  all  this  is  through 
your  kindness.  And  do  you  think,  madam,  that 
even  so  he  will  not  have  more  money  left  ?  Why, 
he  's  richer  than  you  are,  as  God  is  my  witness, 
ma  am! 

"  All  that  is  so,  of  course,  but,  nevertheless,  I 
cannot.  .  .  .  How  am  I  to  sell  that  inn?  " 

"But  why  not  sell  it,  ma'am? " — went  on  Ki- 
rillovna. — "  Luckily,  a  purchaser  has  turned  up. 
Permit  me  to  inquire,  ma'am,  how  much  does  he 
offer  you? " 

"  Over  two  thousand  rubles," — said  Lizaveta 
Prokhorovna,  softlj\ 

"  He  '11  give  more,  madam,  if  he  offers  two 
thousand  at  the  first  word.  And  you  can  set- 
tle with  Akim  afterward ;  you  can  reduce  his  quit- 
rent,  I  suppose.— He  will  still  be  grateful." 

"  Of  course,  his  quit-rent  must  be  reduced. 
But  no,  Kirillovna;  how  can  I  sell?  .  .  ."    And 

284 


THE  INN 

Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  paced  up  and  down  the 
room.  ..."  No,  it  is  impossible;  it  isn't  right; 
....  no ;  please  say  no  more  to  me  about  it  .  .  . 
or  I  shall  get  angry.  .  .  ." 

But  in  spite  of  the  prohibition  of  the  excited 
Lizaveta  Prokhorovna,  Kirillovna  continued  to 
talk,  and  half  an  hour  later  she  returned  to 
Naiim,  whom  she  had  left  in  the  butler's  pantry 
with  the  samovar. 

"  What  have  you  to  tell  me,  my  most  re- 
spected?"— said  Naiim,  foppishly  turning  his 
empty  cup  upside  down  on  his  saucer. 

"  This  is  what  I  have  to  tell  you," — returned 
Kifillovna: — "  that  you  are  to  go  to  the  mistress; 
she  bids  you  come." 

"  I  obey,  ma'am,"— replied  Naum,  rising,  and 
followed  Kirillovna  to  the  drawing-room. 

The  door  closed  behind  them.  .  .  .  When,  at 
last,  that  door  opened  again  and  Naum  backed 
out  of  it  bowing,  the  matter  was  already  settled; 
Akim's  inn  belonged  to  him;  he  had  acquired  it 
for  two  thousand  eight  hundred  rubles  in  bank- 
bills.^  They  had  decided  to  complete  the  deed 
of  sale  as  promptly  as  possible,  and  not  to  an- 
nounce the  sale  until  that  was  accomplished; 
Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  had  received  one  hundred 
rubles  as  deposit,  and  two  hundred  rubles  went  to 
Kirillovna  as  commission. 

^  The  difference  in  value  between  paper  and  silver  money  was  con- 
siderable in  those  days,  and  the  sort  of  currency  is  generally  specified. 
—Translator. 

285 


THE  INN 

"  I  have  got  it  at  a  bargain," — thought  Naum. 
as  he  chmbed  into  his  cart;  "  I  'm  glad  it  turned 
out  well." 

At  that  very  time,  when  the  bargain  which  we 
have  described  was  being  effected  at  the  manor- 
house,  Akim  was  sitting  alone  on  the  wall-bench 
under  the  window,  in  his  own  room,  and  stroking 
his  beard  with  an  air  of  displeasure.  .  .  .  We 
have  stated  above  that  he  did  not  suspect  his 
wife's  fondness  for  Naum,  although  kind  persons 
had,  more  than  once,  hinted  to  him  that  it  was 
high  time  for  him  to  listen  to  reason;  of  course, 
he  himself  was  sometimes  able  to  observe  that 
his  housewife,  for  some  time  past,  had  become 
more  restive;  but  then,  all  the  world  knows  that 
the  female  sex  is  vain  and  capricious.  Even  when 
it  really  seemed  to  him  that  something  was  wrong, 
he  merely  waved  it  from  him ;  he  did  not  wish,  as 
the  saying  is,  to  raise  a  row ;  his  good-nature  had 
not  diminished  with  the  years,  and,  moreover, 
indolence  was  making  itself  felt.  But  on  that  day 
he  was  very  much  out  of  sorts;  on  the  previous 
evening  he  had  unexpectedly  overheard  on  the 
street  a  conversation  between  his  maid-servant 
and  another  woman,  one  of  his  neighbours.  .  .  . 

The  woman  had  asked  his  maid-servant  why 
she  had  not  run  in  to  see  her  on  the  evening  of 
the  holiday.    "  I  was  expecting  thee,"  she  said. 

"  Why,  I  would  have  come," — replied  the 
maid-servant, — "  but,  shameful  to  say,  I  caught 

286 


THE  INN 

the  mistress  at  her  capers  ....  bad  luck  to 
her!" 

"  Thou  didst  catch  her  .  .  .  ."  repeated  the 
peasant-wife  in  a  peculiarly-drawling  tone,  prop- 
ping her  cheek  on  her  hand.—"  And  where  didst 
thou  catch  her,  my  mother?  " 

"  Why,  behind  the  hemp-patches— the  priest's 
hemp-patches.  The  mistress,  seest  thou,  had  gone 
out  to  the  hemp-patches  to  meet  that  fellow  of 
hers,  that  Naum,  and  I  could  n't  see  in  the  dark, 
whether  because  of  the  moonlight,  or  what  not, 
the  Lord  knows,  and  so  I  ran  right  against  them." 

"  Thou  didst  run  against  them," — repeated 
the  peasant-wife  again. — "  Well,  and  what  was 
she  doing,  my  mother?  Was  she  standing  with 
him? " 

"  She  was  standing,  right  enough.  He  was 
standing  and  she  was  standing.  She  caught 
sight  of  me,  and  says  she :  '  Whither  art  thou 
running  to?  Take  thyself  off  home.'   So  I  went." 

"  Thou  wentest." — The  peasant-wife  was  si- 
lent for  a  space. — "  Well,  good-bye,  Fetiniu- 
shka,"^she  said,  and  went  her  way. 

This  couA^ersation  had  produced  an  unpleasant 
effect  on  Akim.  His  love  for  Avdotya  had  al- 
ready grown  cold,  but,  nevertheless,  the  maid- 
servant's words  displeased  him.  And  she  had 
told  the  truth :  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Avdotya  had 
gone  out  that  evening  to  meet  Naiim,  who  had 
waited  for  her  in  the  dense  shadow  which  fell 

287 


THE  INN 

upon  the  road  from  the  tall  and  motionless  hemp- 
patch.  The  dew  had  drenched  its  every  stalk 
from  top  to  bottom;  the  scent,  powerful  to 
the  point  of  oppressiveness,  lay  all  around.  The 
moon  had  only  just  risen,  huge  and  crimson,  in 
the  dim  and  the  blackish  mist.  Naum  had  heard 
Avdotya's  hasty  footsteps  from  afar,  and  had  ad- 
vanced to  meet  her.  She  reached  him  all  pale 
with  running ;  the  moon  shone  directly  in  her  face. 

"  Well,  how  now;  hast  thou  brought  it?  " — he 
asked  her. 

"  Yes,  I  have,"— she  replied  in  an  irresolute 
tone:— "but,  Naum  Ivanovitch,  what  .  .  .  ." 

"  Give  it  here,  if  thou  hast  brought  it,"— he 
interrupted  her,  stretching  out  his  hand. 

She  drew  from  beneath  her  kerchief  on  her 
neck  some  sort  of  packet.  Naum  instantly 
grasped  it  and  thrust  it  into  his  breast. 

"  Naum  I vanitch,"— enunciated  Avdotya, 
slowly,  and  without  taking  her  eyes  from  him. 
..."  Okh,  Naum  I  vanitch,  I  am  ruining  my 
soul  for  thee.  ..." 

At  that  moment  the  maid-servant  had  come 
upon  them. 

So,  then,  Akim  was  sitting  on  the  wall-bench 
and  stroking  his  beard  with  his  dissatisfaction. 
Avdotya  kept  entering  the  house  and  leaving  it. 
He  merely  followed  her  with  his  eyes.  At  last 
she  entered  yet  again,  and  taking  a  warm  wadded 
jacket  from  the  little  room,  she  was  already  cross- 

288 


THE  INN 

ing  the   threshold;   but   he   could  endure   it   no 
longer,  and  began  to  talk,  as  though  to  himself : 

"  I  wonder,"— he  began, — "  what  makes  these 
women-folks  alwaj^s  so  fidgety?  That  they 
should  sit  still  in  one  spot  is  something  that  can't 
be  demanded  of  them.  That 's  no  affair  of  theirs. 
But  what  they  do  love  is  to  be  running  off  some- 
where or  other,  morning  or  evening. — Yes." 

Avdotya  heard  her  husband's  speech  out  to  the 
end  without  changing  her  attitude;  only,  at  the 
>vord  "  evening,"  she  moved  her  head  a  mere  tri- 
fle, and  seemed  to  become  thoughtful. 

"  Well,  Semyonitch," — she  said  at  last,  with 
irritation, — "  't  is  well  known  that  when  thou  be- 
ginnest  to  talk,  why.  .  .  ." 

She  waved  her  hand  and  departed,  slamming 
the  door  behind  her.  Avdotya  did  not,  in  fact, 
hold  Akim's  eloquence  in  high  esteem,  and  it 
sometimes  happened,  when  he  undertook  of  an 
evening  to  argue  with  the  travellers,  or  began  to 
tell  stories,  she  лvould  yawn  quietly  or  walk  out 
of  the  room.  Akim  stared  at  the  closed  door.  .  .  . 
"  When  thou  beginnest  to  talk,"  he  repeated  in 
an  undertone  .  .  .  .  "  that  's  exactly  it,  that  I 
have  talked  very  little  with  thee.  .  .  .  And  who 
art  thou?  My  equal,  and,  moreover  .  .  .  ."  And 
he  rose,  meditated,  and  dealt  himself  a  blow  on 
the  nape  of  his  neck  with  his  clenched  fist.  .  .  . 

A  few  days  passed  after  this  day  in  a  de- 
cidedly queer  manner.    Akim  kept  on  staring  at 

289 


THE  INN 

his  wife,  as  though  he  were  preparing  to  say 
something  to  her;  and  she,  on  her  side,  darted 
suspicious  glances  at  him ;  moreover,  both  of  them 
maintained  a  constrained  silence;  this  silence, 
however,  was  generally  broken  by  some  snappish 
remark  from  Akim  about  some  neglect  in  the 
housekeeping,  or  on  the  subject  of  women  in 
general ;  Avdotya,  for  the  most  part,  did  not  an- 
swer him  with  a  single  word.  But,  despite  all 
Akim's  good-natured  weakness,  matters  would 
infallibly  have  come  to  a  decisive  explanation  be- 
tween him  and  Avdotya  had  it  not  been  for  the 
fact  that,  at  last,  an  incident  occurred,  after  which 
all  explanations  would  have  been  superfluous. 

Namely,  one  morning,  Akim  and  his  wife  were 
just  preparing  to  take  a  light  meal  after  the 
noon  hour  (there  was  not  a  single  traveller  in  the 
inn,  after  the  summer  labours),  when  suddenly 
a  small  cart  rumbled  energetically  along  the 
road,  and  drew  up  at  the  porch.  Akim  glanced 
through  the  small  window,  frowned,  and  dropped 
his  eyes;  from  the  cart,  without  haste,  Naiim 
alighted.  Avdotya  did  not  see  him,  but  when 
his  voice  resounded  in  the  anteroom,  the  spoon 
trembled  weakly  in  her  hand.  He  ordered 
the  hired  man  to  put  his  horse  in  the  yard.  At 
last  the  door  flew  wide  open,  and  he  entered 
the  room. 

"  Morning,"— he  said,  and  dofl'ed  his  cap. 

"  Morning,"— repeated  Akim  through  his 
teeth.—"  Whence  has  God  brought  thee?  " 

290 


THE  INN 

"  From  the  neighbourhood,"— returned  the 
other,  seating  himself  on  the  wall-bench. — "  I 
come  from  the  lady-mistress." 

"  From  the  mistress,"— said  Akim,  still  not 
rising  from  his  seat. — "  On  business,  pray?  " 

"  Yes,  on  business.  Avdotya  Arefyevna,  our 
respects  to  j^u." 

"  Good  morning,  Naum,"— she  replied. 

All  remained  silent  for  a  space. 

"  What  have  you  there— some  sort  of  porridge, 
I  suppose?  " — began  Naum.  .  .  . 

"  Yes,  porridge," — retorted  Akim,  and  sud- 
denly paled:  —  "  but  it  is  n't  for  thee." 

Naum  darted  a  glance  of  astonishment  at 
Akim. 

"Why  is  n't  it  for  me?" 

"  AVhy,  just  because  it  is  n't  for  thee." — 
Akim's  eyes  began  to  flash,  and  he  smote  the 
table  with  his  fist. — "  There  is  nothing  in  my 
house  for  thee,  dost  hear  me?  " 

"What  ails  thee,  Semyonitch,  what  ails  thee? 
What  's  the  matter  with  thee?  " 

"  There  's  nothing  the  matter  with  me,  but  I  'm 
tired  of  thee,  Naum  Ivanitch,  that 's  what."— The 
old  man  rose  to  his  feet,  trembling  all  over.— 
"  Thou  hast  taken  to  haunting  my  house  alto- 
gether too  much,  that  's  what." 

Naum  also  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Thou  hast  gone  crazy,  brother,  I  do  believe," 
— he  said  with  a  smile.— "  Avdotya  Arefyevna, 
what 's  the  matter  with  him?  "... 

291 


THE  INN 

"  I  tell  thee,"— yelled  Akim,  in  a  quivering 
voice, — "  get  out.  Dost  hear  me? ....  What  hast 
thou  to  do  with  Avdotya  Arefyevna?  ....  Be- 
gone, I  tell  thee!    Dost  hear  me?  " 

"What  's  that  thou  art  saying  to  me?" — in- 
quired Naum,  significantly. 

"  Take  thyself  away  from  here ;  that  's  what 
I  'm  saying  to  thee.  There  is  God,  and  there  is 
the  threshold  ....  dost  understand?  or  't  will 
be  the  worse  for  thee!  " 

Naum  strode  forward. 

"  Good  heavens,  don't  fight,  my  dear  little 
doves," — stammered  Avdotya,  who  until  then 
had  remained  sitting  motionless  at  the  table.  .  .  . 

Naum  cast  a  glance  at  her. 

"  Don't  worry,  Avdotya  Arefyevna,  why 
should  we  fight!  Ek-sta,  brother," — he  con- 
tinued, addressing  Akfm: — "thou  hast  deafened 
me  with  thy  yells.  Really.  What  an  inso- 
lent fello\v  thou  art!  Did  any  one  ever  hear  of 
such  a  thing  as  expelling  a  man  from  another 
man's  house," — added  Naum,  with  deliberate 
enunciation: — "  and  the  master  of  the  house,  into 
the  bargain? " 

"  What  dost  thou  mean  by  another  man's 
house?" — muttered  Akim. — "What  master  of 
the  house?  " 

"  Why,  me,  for  example." 

And  Naum  screwed  up  his  eyes,  and  displayed 
his  white  teeth  in  a  grin. 

292 


THE  INN 

"  Thee,  forsooth?  Ain't  I  the  master  of  the 
house?  " 

"  What  a  stupid  fellow  thou  art,  my  good 
fellow. — I  am  the  master  of  the  house,  I  tell 
thee." 

Akim  opened  his  eyes  to  their  widest. 

"  What  nonsense  is  that  thou  art  prating,  as 
though  thou  hadst  eaten  mad- wort?  " — he  said 
at  last. — "  Нолу  the  devil  dost  thou  come  to  be 
the  master? " 

"  Well,  what  's  the  use  of  talking  to  thee," — 
shouted  Naiim,  impatiently. — "Dost  see  this 
document," — he  added,  jerking  out  of  his  pocket 
a  sheet  of  stamped  paper  folded  in  four: — "  dost 
see  it  ?  This  is  a  deed  of  sale,  understand,  a  deed 
of  sale  for  thy  land,  and  for  the  inn;  I  have 
bought  them  from  the  landed  proprietress,  Liza- 
veta  Prokhorovna.  We  signed  the  deed  of  sale 
yesterday,  in  B*** — consequently,  I  am  the  mas- 
ter here,  not  thou.  Gather  up  thy  duds  this  very 
day," — he  added,  putting  the  paper  back  in  his 
pocket ; — "  and  let  there  be  not  a  sign  of  thee  here 
by  to-morrow;  hearest  thou?  " 

Akim  stood  as  though  he  had  been  struck  b}^ 
lightning. 

"  Brigand!  " — he  moaned  at  last; — "  the  brig- 
and. .  .  Hey,  Fedka,  Mitka,  wife,  wife,  seize 
him,  seize  him — hold  him!  " 

He  had  completely  lost  his  wits. 

"  Look    out,    look    out," — ejaculated    Naum. 

293 


THE  INN 

menacingly:—"  look  out,  old  man,  don't  play  the 
fool.  .  .  ." 

"  But  beat  him,  beat  him,  wife!  "— Akim  kept 
repeating  in  a  tearful  voice,  vainly  and  impo- 
tently  trying  to  leave  his  place.—"  The  soul- 
ruiner,  the  brigand.  .  .  She  was  n't  enough  for 
thee  .  .  .  thou  wantest  to  take  my  house  away 
from  me  also,  and  everything.  .  .  .  But  no,  stay 
....  that  cannot  be.  ...  I  will  go  myself.  I 
will  tell  her  myself  .  .  .  how  ....  but  why 
sell?  .  .  .  Stop  ....  stop.  .  .  ." 

And  he  rushed  hatless  into  the  street. 

"  Whither  art  thou  running,  Akim  Ivanitch, 
whither  art  thou  running,  dear  little  father?  " — 
cried  the  maid-servant  Fetinya,  who  colhded  with 
him  in  the  doorway. 

"  To  the  mistress !  let  me  go !  To  the  mis- 
tress. .  .  ."  roared  Akim,  and  catching  sight  of 
Naum's  cart,  Avhich  the  servants  had  not  yet  had 
time  to  put  in  the  stable-yard,  he  sprang  into  it, 
seized  the  reins,  and  lashing  the  horse  with  all 
his  might,  he  set  off  at  a  gallop  to  the  lady's 
manor-house. 

"  Dear  little  mother,  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna," 
—he  kept  repeating  to  himself  all  the  way, — 
"  why  such  unkindness?  I  have  shown  zeal,  me- 
thinks!" 

And,  in  the  meantime,  he  kept  on  beating  the 
horse.  Those  who  met  him  drew  aside  and  gazed 
long  after  him. 

294 


THE  INN 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Akim  had  reached 
Lizaveta  Prokhorovna's  manor,  had  dashed  up 
to  the  porch,  had  leaped  from  the  cart,  and  burst 
straight  into  the  anteroom. 

"  What  dost  thou  want?  "—muttered  the  star- 
tled footman,  who  was  sweetly  dozing  on  the 
locker. 

"  The  mistress— I  must  see  the  mistress,"  vocif- 
erated Akim  loudly. 

The  lackey  was  astounded. 

"  Has  anything  happened?  " — he  began. 

''  Nothing  has  happened,  but  I  must  see  the 
mistress." 

"What,  what?"— said  the  lackey,  more  and 
more  astounded,  straightening  himself  up. 

Akim  recovered  himself.  .  .  It  was  as  though 
he  had  been  drenched  with  cold  water. 

"  Announce  to  the  mistress,  Piotr  Evgrafitch," 
— he  said,  with  a  low  obeisance, — "  that  Akim 
wishes  to  see  her.  .  .  ." 

"  Good,  ...  I  will  go  ....  I  will  an- 
nounce thee  ....  but  evidently  thou  art 
drunk.  Wait," — grumbled  the  lackey,  and  with- 
drew. 

Akim  dropped  his  eyes  and  became  confused, 
as  it  were.  .  .  .  His  boldness  had  swiftly  aban- 
doned him  from  the  very  moment  he  had  entered 
the  anteroom. 

Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  was  also  disconcerted 
when  Akim's  arrival  was  announced  to  her.    She 

295 


THE  INN 

immediately  gave  orders  that  Kirillovna  should 
be  called  to  her  in  her  boudoir. 

"  I  cannot  receive  him," — she  said  hurriedly, 
as  soon  as  the  latter  made  her  appearance; — "  I 
cannot  possibly  do  it.  What  can  I  say  to  him? 
Did  n't  I  tell  thee  that  he  would  be  sure  to  come 
and  would  complain?" — she  added,  with  vexa- 
tion and  agitation; — "I  said  so.  .  .  ." 

"  Why  should  you  receive  him,  ma'am? " — 
calmly  replied  Kirillovna; — "that  is  not  neces- 
sary, ma'am.  Why  should  you  disturb  yourself, 
pray  i 

"But  what  am  I  to  do?" 

"  If  you  will  permit  me,  I  will  talk  with  him." 

Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  raised  her  head. 

"  Pray,  do  me  the  favour,  Kirillovna.  Do  talk 
with  him.  Do  thou  tell  him  ....  there — well, 
that  I  found  it  necessary  .  .  .  and,  moreover, 
that  I  will  make  it  up  to  him  ....  well,  there 
now,  thou  knowest  what  to  say.  Pray,  do,  Kiril- 
lovna." 

"  Please  do  not  fret,  madam," — returned  Ki- 
rillovna, and  withdrew,  with  squeaking  shoes. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  had  not  elapsed  when 
their  squeaking  became  audible  again,  and  Ki- 
rillovna entered  the  boudoir  with  the  same  com- 
posed expression  on  her  face,  with  the  same 
crafty  intelligence  in  her  eyes. 

"  Well," — inquired  her  mistress, — "  how  about 
Akim? " 

296 


THE  INN 

"  'T  is  all  right,  ma'am.  He  says,  ma'am,  that 
everything  is  in  your  power,  he  submits  himself 
wholly  to  the  will  of  your  Graciousness,  and  if 
only  you  keep  well  and  prosperous,  he  will  for- 
ever be  satisfied  with  his  lot." 

"  And  he  made  no  complaint?  " 

"  None  whatever,  ma'am.  What  was  there 
for  him  to  complain  about?  " 

"  But  why  did  he  come,  then?  " — said  Lizaveta 
Prokhorovna,  not  without  some  surprise. 

"  Why,  he  came  to  ask,  ma'am,  until  he  receives 
compensation,  whether  you  will  not  be  so  gracious 
as  to  remit  his  quit-rent  for  the  coming  year,  that 
is  to  say  .  .  .  ." 

"  Of  course  I  will!  I  will  remit  it," — put 
in  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna,  with  vivacity; — "  of 
course.  And,  tell  him,  in  general  terms,  that  I 
will  reward  him.  Well,  I  thank  thee,  Kirillovna. 
And  he  is  a  good  j)easant,  I  see.  Stay," — she 
added: — "here,  give  him  this  from  me." — And 
she  took  out  of  her  work-table  a  three-ruble  bill.  — 
"  Here,  take  this  and  give  it  to  him." 

"  I  obey,  ma'am,"— replied  Kirillovna,  and 
coolly  returning  to  her  own  room,  she  coollj^ 
locked  up  the  bank-bill  in  an  iron-bound  casket 
which  stood  by  the  head  of  her  bed;  she  kept  in 
it  all  her  ready  money,  and  the  amount  was  not 
small. 

Kirillovna  by  her  report  had  soothed  her  ladj^ 
but  the  conversation  between  her  and  Akim  had, 

297 


THE  INN 

in  reality,  not  been  precisely  as  she  represented 
it,  but  to  wit:  she  had  ordered  him  to  be  sum- 
moned to  her  in  the  maids'  hall.  At  fii'st  he  re- 
fused to  go  to  her,  declaring  that  he  did  not  wish 
to  see  Kirillovna,  but  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  her- 
self; nevertheless,  at  last,  he  submitted,  and 
wended  his  way  through  the  back  door  to  Kiril- 
lovna. He  found  her  alone.  On  entering  the 
room  he  came  to  a  halt  at  once,  leaned  against  the 
wall  near  the  door,  and  made  an  effort  to  speak 
....  and  could  not. 

Kirillovna  stared  intently  at  him. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  see  the  mistress,  Akim  Se- 
myonitch?  " — she  began. 

He  merely  nodded  his  head. 

"  That  is  impossible,  Akim  Semyonitch.  And 
what  is  the  use?  What  is  done  can't  be  undone, 
and  you  will  only  worry  her.  She  cannot  receive 
you  now,  Akim  Semyonitch." 

"  She  cannot,"— he  repeated,  and  paused  for 
a  space. — "  Then  how  is  it  to  be," — he  said  at 
last; — "  that  means  that  I  must  lose  my  house?  " 

"  Hearken,  Akim  Semyonitch.  I  know  that 
you  have  always  been  a  reasonable  man.  This  is 
the  mistress's  will.  And  it  cannot  be  changed. 
You  cannot  alter  it.  There  is  nothing  for  you 
and  me  to  discuss,  for  it  will  lead  to  no  result. 
Is  n't  that  so?" 

Akim  put  his  hands  behind  his  back. 

"  But  you  had  better  consider," — went  on  Ki- 
298 


THE  INN 

rfllovna, — "  whether  you  ought  not  to  ask  the 
mistress  to  remit  your  quit-rent,  had  n't  you?  ..." 

"  That  means  that  I  must  lose  the  house," — 
repeated  Akim,  in  the  same  tone  as  before. 

"  Akim  Semyonitch,  I  've  told  you  already 
't  is  impossible  to  change  that.  You  know  that 
yourself  even  better  than  I  do." 

"  Yes.  But  tell  me,  at  any  rate,  how  much 
my  inn  sold  for? " 

"  I  don't  know  that,  Akim  Semyonitch;  I  can't 
tell  you.  .  .  .  But  why  do  you  stand  there?  " — 
she  added. — "  Sit  down.  .  .  ." 

"  I  '11  stand  as  I  am,  ma'am.  I  'm  a  peasant. 
I  thank  you  humbly." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  you  are  a  peasant, 
Akim  Semyonitch?  You  are  the  same  as  a  mer- 
chant; you  cannot  be  compared  even  with  the 
house-serfs;  why  do  you  say  that?  Don't  decry 
yourself  without  cause.  Won't  you  have  some 
tea?  " 

"  No,  thanks ;  I  don't  require  it.  And  so  my 
dear  little  house  has  become  your  property," — 
he  added,  quitting  the  wall. — "  Thanks  for  that, 
also.    I  will  bid  you  good  day,  my  little  madam." 

Thereupon  he  wheeled  round,  and  left  the 
room.  Kirillovna  smoothed  down  her  apron,  and 
betook  herself  to  her  mistress. 

*'  So  it  appears  that  I  actually  have  become  a 
merchant," — said  Akim  to  himself,  as  he  paused 
in  thought  before  the  gate. — "  A  fine  merchant!  " 

299 


THE  INN 

He  waved  his  hand  and  laughed  a  bitter  laugh. 
— "  Well,  I  might  as  well  go  home!  " 

And  utterly  oblivious  of  Naum's  horse,  which 
he  had  driven  thither,  he  trudged  along  the  road 
to  the  inn.  Before  he  had  covered  the  first  verst, 
he  heard  the  rattle  of  a  cart  alongside  of  him. 

"  Akim,  Akim  Semyonitch!  " — some  one  called 
to  him. 

He  raised  his  eyes  and  beheld  his  acquaintance, 
the  chanter  of  the  parish  church,  Efrem,  nick- 
named "  The  Mole,"  a  small,  round-shouldered 
man,  with  a  sharp-pointed  little  nose,  and  pur- 
blind eyes.  He  was  sitting  in  a  rickety  little  cart 
on  a  whisp  of  straw,  with  his  breast  leaning  on 
the  driver's  seat. 

"  Art  thou  on  thy  way  home,  pray?  "—he  asked 
Akim. 

Akim  halted. 

"  Yes." 

"  I  '11  drive  you  there,— shall  I?  " 

"  All  right,  do." 

Efrem  moved  aside,  and  Akim  clambered  into 
the  cart.  Efrem,  луЬо  was  jolly  with  drink,  it 
appeared,  set  to  lashing  his  miserable  little  nag 
with  the  ends  of  his  rope  reins ;  the  horse  advanced 
at  a  weary  trot,  incessantly  twitching  her  un- 
bridled muzzle. 

They  drove  about  a  verst,  without  saying  one 
word  to  each  other.    Akim  sat  with  bowed  head, 

300 


THE  INN 

and  Efrem  merely  mumbled  something  to  him- 
self, now  stimulating  the  horse  to  greater  speed, 
now  reining  it  in. 

"Whither  hast  thou  been  without  a  hat,  Semyo- 
nitch?  "—he  suddenly  asked  Akim,  and,  without 
waiting  for  a  reply,  he  went  on  in  an  undertone : 
— "  thou  hast  left  it  in  a  nice  little  dram-shop, 
that  's  what.  Thou  'rt  a  tippler;  I  know  thee, 
and  I  love  thee  because  thou  art  a  tippler — 't  was 
high  time,  long  ago,  to  place  thee  under  ecclesi- 
astical censure,  God  is  my  witness;  because  't  is 
a  bad  business.  .  .  .  Hurrah!" — he  shouted  sud- 
denly, at  the  top  of  his  lungs, — "hurrah!  hur- 
rah!" 

"Halt!  halt!"— rang  out  a  woman's  voice 
close  at  hand. — "  Halt!  " 

Akim  glanced  round.  Across  the  fields,  in  the 
direction  of  the  cart,  a  woman  was  running,  so 
pale  and  dishevelled  that  he  did  not  recognise  her 
at  first. 

"Halt,  halt!"— she  moaned  again,  panting 
and  waving  her  arms. 

Akim  shuddered:  it  was  his  wife. 

He  seized  the  reins. 

"  And  why  should  we  halt?  "—muttered 
Efrem;— "why  should  we  halt  for  a  female? 
Getu-uup!" 

But  Akim  jerked  the  horse  abruptly  on  its 
haunches. 

301 


THE  INN 

At  that  moment  Avdotya  reached  the  road, 
and  fairly  tumbled  headlong,  face  downward,  in 
the  dust. 

"  Dear  little  father,  Akim  Semyonitch," — she 
shrieked; — "he  has  actually  turned  me  out  of 
doors!  " 

Akim  gazed  at  her,  and  did  not  move,  but 
merely  drew  the  reins  still  more  taut. 

"Hurrah!" — cried  Efrem  again. 

"  And  so  he  has  turned  thee  out? " — said 
Akim. 

"  He  has,  dear  little  father,  my  dear  little 
dove,"  replied  Avdotya,  sobbing. — "  He  has 
turned  me  out,  dear  little  father.  '  The  house  is 
mine  noAv,'  says  he; '  so  get  out,'  says  he." 

"  Capital,  that  's  just  fine  .  .  .  capital!  "—re- 
marked Efrem. 

"  And  thou  wert  counting  on  remaining,  I 
suppose?  "—said  Akim,  bitterly,  as  he  continued 
to  sit  in  the  cart. 

"Remain,  indeed!  Yes,  dear  little  father," — 
put  in  Avdotya,  who  had  raised  herself  on  her 
knees,  and  again  beat  her  brow  against  the 
ground; — "for  thou  dost  not  know,  seest  thou, 
I.  .  .  .  Kill  me,  Akim  Semyonitch,  kill  me  here, 
on  the  spot.  .  .  ." 

"  Why  should  I  beat  thee,  Arefyevna!  "—re- 
plied Akim,  dejectedly: — "  thou  hast  vanquished 
thyself!  what  more  is  there  to  say?  " 

"But  what  wilt  thou  think,   Akim   Semyo- 
302 


THE  INN 

nitch.  .  .  .  Why,  the  money  ....  was  thy 
money.  ...  It  is  gone,  thy  money.  .  .  For  I  took 
it,  accursed  that  I  am,  I  got  it  from  the  cellar. 
....  I  gave  it  all  to  that  man,  that  villain,  that 
Naum,  accursed  creature  that  I  am!  .  .  .  And 
why  didst  thou  tell  me  where  thou  hadst  hidden 
thy  money,  wretched  being  that  I  am !  .  .  .  .  For 
he  bought  the  inn  with  thy  money  ....  the  vil- 
lain. .  .  ." 

Sobs  drowned  her  voice. 

Akim  clutched  his  head  with  both  hands. 

"  What!  " — he  screamed  at  last;—"  and  so  all 
the  money  too  .  .  .  the  money,  and  the  inn,  thou 
hast.  .  .  .  Ah!  thou  hast  got  it  from  the  cellar 
....  frOm  the  cellar.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  will  kill  thee, 
thou  brood  of  vipers!  .  .  ." 

And  he  leaped  from  the  cart.  .  .  . 

"  Semyonitch,  Semyonitch,  don't  beat  her, 
don't  fight," — stammered  Efrem,  whose  intoxi- 
cation began  to  dissipate  at  such  an  unexpected 
event. 

"  Yes,  dear  little  father,  kill  me,  kill  me,  dear 
little  father,  kill  me,  the  vile  creature :  beat  away, 
don't  heed  him!" — shrieked  Avdotya,  as  she 
writhed  convulsively  at  Akim's  feet. 

He  stood  awhile  and  stared  at  her,  then  re- 
treated a  few  paces,  and  sat  down  on  the  grass, 
by  the  roadside. 

A  brief  silence  ensued.  Avdotya  turned  her 
head  in  his  direction. 

303 


THE  INN 

"  Semyonitch,  hey,  Semyonitch!" — began 
Efrem,  half -rising  in  the  cart; — "  have  done  with 
that— that  will  do  .  .  .  for  thou  canst  not  re- 
pair the  calamity.  Phew,  what  an  affair!  " — he 
continued,  as  though  to  himself; — "what  a 
damned  bad  woman.  .  .  Do  thou  go  to  him," — 
he  added,  bending  over  the  cart-rail  toward  Av- 
dotya; — "canst  not  see  that  he  has  gone  crazy?  " 

Avdotya  rose,  approached  Akim  and  again  fell 
at  his  feet. 

"  Dear  little  father," — she  began  in  a  faint 
voice. 

Akim  rose  and  went  back  to  the  cart.  She 
clutched  the  skirt  of  his  kaftan. 

"Get  awayl"— he  shouted  fiercely,  repulsing 
her. 

"  Whither  art  thou  going? " — Efrem  asked 
him,  perceiving  that  he  was  taking  his  seat  again 
beside  him. 

"  Why,  thou  didst  offer  to  drive  me  to  the  inn," 
— said  Akim: — "  so  drive  me  to  thy  house.  .  .  . 
I  have  none  any  more,  seest  thou.  They  have 
bought  it  from  me,  you  know." 

"  Well,  all  right,  let  's  go  to  my  house.  And 
how  about  her? " 

Akim  made  no  answer. 

"And  me,  me," — chimed  in  Avdotya,  weeping; 
—  "to  whose  care  dost  thou  leave  me  .  .  .  . 
whither  am  I  to  go? " 

"  Go  to  him," — returned  Akim,  without  turn- 
304 


THE  INN 

ing  round:— "to  the  man  to  whom  thou  didst 
carry  my  money.  .  .  Drive  on,  Efrem!  " 

Efrem  whipped  up  the  horse,  the  cart  rolled 
off,  and  Avdotya  set  up  a  shrill  scream.  .  .  . 

Efrem  lived  a  verst  from  Akim's  inn,  in  a  tiny 
cot  in  the  priest's  glebe,  disposed  around  the  soli- 
tary five-domed  church,  which  had  recently  been 
erected  by  the  heirs  of  a  wealthy  merchant,  in 
conformity  with  his  testamentary  dispositions. 
Efrem  did  not  speak  to  Akim  all  the  way,  and 
only  shook  his  head  from  time  to  time,  uttering 
words  of  the  following  nature:  "  Akh,  thou!" 
and,  "  Ekh,  thou !  "  Akim  sat  motionless,  slightly 
turned  away  from  Efrem.  At  last  they  arrived. 
Efrem  sprang  out  first  from  the  cart.  A  little 
girl  of  six  years  in  a  little  chemise  girt  low  ran 
out  to  meet  him,  and  screamed: 

"Daddy!  daddy!" 

"  And  where  is  thy  mother?  " — Efrem  asked 
her. 

"  She  's  asleep  in  the  kennel." 

"  Well,  let  her  sleep.  Akim  Semyonitch,  won't 
you  please  come  into  the  house?  " 

(It  must  be  observed  that  Efrem  addressed 
him  as  "  thou  "  only  when  he  was  intoxicated. 
Far  more  important  persons  than  he  addressed 
Akim  as  "  you.") 

Akim  entered  the  chanter's  cottage. 

"  Pray,  come  hither  to  the  bench," — said 
Efrem. — "  Run  along,   you  little  rogues," — he 

305 


THE  INN 

shouted  at  three  other  brats  who,  along  with  two 
emaciated  cats  bespattered  with  ashes,  suddenly 
made  their  appearance  from  various  corners  of 
the  room.—"  Run  away!  Scat!  Here,  Akim 
Semyonitch,  come  here,"— he  went  on,  as  he 
seated  his  guest: — "  and  would  n't  you  like  some- 
thing? " 

"  What  shall  I  say  to  thee,  Efrem?  "—articu- 
lated Akim  at  last.—"  Could  n't  I  have  some 
liquor? " 

Efrem  gave  a  start. 

"  Liquor?  Certainly.  I  have  none  in  the  house, 
— liquor,  that  is  to  say, — but  here,  I  '11  run  at  once 
to  Father  Feodor.  He  always  has  some  on  hand. 
....  I  11  be  back  in  a  jiffy.  .  .  ." 

And  he  snatched  up  his  large-eared  cap. 

"  And  bring  as  much  as  possible;  I  '11  pay  for 
it,"— shouted  Akim  after  him.—"  I  still  have 
money  enough  for  that." 

"  In  a  jiffy,"  .  .  .  repeated  Efrem  once 
more,  as  he  disappeared  through  the  door.  He 
really  did  return  very  speedily  with  two  quart> 
bottles  under  his  arm,  one  of  which  was  already 
uncorked,  placed  them  on  the  table,  got  out  two 
small  green  glasses,  the  heel  of  a  loaf,  and  salt. 

"  That  's  what  I  love,"— he  kept  repeating,  as 
he  seated  himself  opposite  Akim.—"  What  's  the 
use  of  grieving?  " — he  filled  the  glasses  for  both 
....  and  set  to  babbling.  .  .  .  Avdotya's  beha- 
viour had  stunned  him.—"  'T  is  an  astonishing 

306 


THE  INN 

affair,  truly,"— said  he:— "how  did  it  come 
about?  He  must  have  bewitched  her  to  himself 
by  magic  ....  hey?  That  's  what  it  means, 
that  a  woman  should  be  strictly  watched!  She 
ought  to  have  had  a  tight  hand  kept  over  her. 
And  yet,  it  would  n't  be  a  bad  thing  for  you  to 
go  home ;  for  you  must  have  a  lot  of  property  left 
there,  I  think." — And  to  many  more  speeches  of 
the  same  sort  did  Efrem  give  utterance ;  when  he 
was  drinking  he  did  not  like  to  hold  his  tongue. 
An  hour  later,  this  is  what  took  place  in 
Efrem's  house.  Akim,  who  had  not  replied  by  a 
single  word,  during  the  entire  course  of  the  drink- 
ing-bout, to  the  interrogations  and  comments  of 
his  loquacious  host,  and  had  merely  drained  glass 
after  glass,  was  fast  asleep  on  the  oven,  all  red 
in  the  face — in  a  heavy,  anguished  slumber;  the 
youngsters  were  wondering  at  him,  while  Efrem 
.  .  .  .  Alas!  Efrem  was  asleep  also,  but  only  in 
a  very  cramped  and  cold  lumber-room,  in  which 
he  had  been  locked  up  by  his  wife,  a  woman  of 
extremely  masculine  and  robust  build.  He 
had  gone  to  her  in  the  stable,  and  had  begun  to 
threaten  her,  if  she  repeated  something  or  other, 
but  so  incoherently  and  unintelligibly  did  he  ex- 
press himself  that  she  instantly  divined  what  the 
trouble  was,  grasped  him  by  the  collar,  and  led 
him  to  the  proper  place.  However,  he  slept  very 
well  and  even  comfortably  in  the  lumber-room. 
Habit! 

307 


THE  INN 

Kirillovna  had  not  reported  her  conversation 
with  Akim  very  accurately  to  Lizaveta  Prokho- 
rovna  ....  and  the  same  may  be  said  concern- 
ing Avdotya.  Naum  had  not  turned  her  out  of 
the  house,  although  she  had  told  Akim  that  he 
had  done  so;  he  had  not  the  right  to  expel  her. 
.  .  .  He  was  bound  to  give  the  former  proprie- 
tors time  to  move  out.  Explanations  of  quite 
another  sort  had  taken  place  between  him  and 
Avdotya.  When  Akim  had  rushed  into  the  street, 
shouting  that  he  would  go  to  the  mistress,  Avdo- 
tya had  turned  to  Naum,  had  stared  at  him  with 
all  her  eyes,  and  clasped  her  hands. 

"O  Lord!" — she  began; — "Naum  Ivanitch, 
what  is  the  meaning  of  this?  Have  you  bought 
our  inn? " 

"  What  if  I  have,  ma'am?  "—he  retorted.— 
"  I  have  bought  it,  ma'am." 

Avdotya  said  nothing  for  a  while,  then  sud- 
denly took  fright. 

"  So  that  is  what  you  wanted  the  money  for?  " 

"  Precisely  as  you  are  pleased  to  put  it,  ma'am. 
Ehe,  I  do  believe  that  measly  little  husband  of 
yours  has  driven  oiF  with  my  horse," — he  added, 
as  the  rumble  of  wheels  reached  his  ear. — "  What 
a  fine  dashing  fellow  he  is!  " 

"Why,  but  this  is  robbery,  nothing  else!" — 
shrieked  Avdotya.  —  "  For  the  money  is  ours,  my 
husband's,  and  the  inn  is  ours  .  .  .  ." 

"  No,  ma'am,  Avdotya  Arefyevna," — Naum 
308 


THE  INN 

interrupted  her: — "the  inn  was  n't  yours,  and 
what 's  the  use  of  saying  so ;  the  inn  stood  on  the 
lady -mistress's  land,  so  it  belonged  to  her  also; 
and  the  money  really  was  yours,  only  you  were 
so  kind,  I  may  put  it,  as  to  contribute  it  to  me, 
ma'am;  and  I  shall  remain  grateful  to  you,  and 
shall  even,  if  the  occasion  arises,  return  it  to 
you, — if  I  should  see  my  way  to  it;  only,  it  is  n't 
right  that  I  should  strip  myself  bare.  Just  judge 
for  yourself  if  that  is  n't  so." 

Naum  said  all  this  very  calmly,  and  even  with 
a  slight  smile. 

"  Good  heavens!  "  —  screamed  Avdotya; — 
"  but  what  's  the  meaning  of  this?  What  is  it? 
But  how  am  I  to  show  myself  in  my  husband's 
sight  after  this?  Thou  villain!" — she  added, 
gazing  with  hatred  at  Naum's  young,  fresh  face ; 
— "  have  n't  I  ruined  my  soul  for  thee,  have  n't 
I  become  a  thief  for  thy  sake,  hast  not  thou  turned 
us  out  of  doors,  thou  abominable  villain?  !  After 
this  there  is  nothing  left  for  me  but  to  put  a  noose 
about  my  neck,  villain,  deceiver,  thou  destroyer 
of  me.  .  .  ." 

And  she  лvept  in  torrents.  .  .  . 

"  Pray,  don't  worry,  Avdotya  Arefyevna," — 
said  Naiim;— "  I  '11  tell  you  one  thing;  a  fellow 
must  look  out  for  number  one;  moreover,  that's 
what  the  pike  is  in  the  sea  for,  Avdotya  Are- 
fyevna— to  keep  the  carp  from  getting  drowsy." 

"  Where  are  we  to  go  now,  what  is  to  be- 
309 


THE  INN 

come  of  us?  " — stammered  Avdotya  through  her 
tears. 

"  That  's  more  than  I  can  tell,  ma'am." 

"  But  I  '11  cut  thy  throat,  thou  villain;  I  will, 
I  will!  .  .  ." 

"  No,  you  won't  do  that,  Avdotya  Arefyevna; 
what  's  the  use  of  saying  that?  But  I  see  that  it 
will  be  better  for  me  to  go  away  from  here  for 
a  while,  or  you  will  be  much  upset.  ...  I  will 
bid  you  good  day,  ma'am,  and  to-morrow  I  shall 
return  without  fail.  .  .  .  And  you  will  be  so 
good  as  to  permit  me  to  send  my  hired  men  to 
you  to-day," — he  added,  while  Avdotya  con- 
tinued to  repeat,  through  her  tears,  that  she  would 
cut  his  throat  and  her  own  also. 

"  And  yonder  they  come,  by  the  way," — he  re- 
marked, looking  out  of  the  window.  "  Otherwise, 
some  catastrophe  might  happen,  which  God  for- 
bid. .  .  .  Matters  will  be  more  tranquil  so.  Do 
me  the  favour  to  get  your  belongings  together 
to-day,  ma'am,  while  they  will  stand  guard  over 
you  and  help  you,  if  you  like.  I  bid  you  good 
day,  ma'am." 

He  bowed,  left  the  room  and  called  his  men  to 
him.  .  .  . 

Avdotya  sank  down  on  the  wall-bench,  then 
laid  herself  breast  down  on  the  table,  and  began 
to  wring  her  hands,  then  suddenly  sprang  to  her 
feet,  and  ran  after  her  husband.  .  .  .  We  have 
described  their  meeting. 

310 


THE  INN 

When  Akim  drove  away  from  her  In  company 
with  Efrem,  leaving  her  alone  in  the  fields,  she 
first  wept  for  a  long  time,  without  stirring  from 
the  spot.  Having  wept  her  fill,  she  directed  her 
course  to  the  mistress's  manor.  It  was  a  bitter 
thing  for  her  to  enter  the  house,  and  still  more 
bitter  to  show  herself  in  the  maids'-hall.  All  the 
maids  flew  to  greet  her  with  sympathy  and  ex- 
pressions of  regret.  At  the  sight  of  them,  Av- 
dotya  could  not  restrain  her  tears;  they  fairly 
gushed  forth  from  her  red  and  swollen  eyes. 
Completely  unnerved,  she  dropped  down  on  the 
first  chair  she  came  to.  They  ran  for  Kirillovna. 
Kirillovna  came,  treated  her  very  affectionately, 
but  would  not  admit  her  to  see  the  mistress,  any 
more  than  she  had  admitted  Akim.  Avdotya  her- 
self did  not  insist  very  strongly  on  seeing  Liza- 
veta  Prokhorovna;  she  had  come  to  the  manor- 
house  solely  because  she  positively  did  not  know 
лvhere  to  lay  her  head. 

Kirillovna  ordered  the  samovar  to  be  prepared. 
For  a  long  time  Avdotya  refused  to  drink  tea, 
but  yielded,  at  last,  to  the  entreaties  and  per- 
suasions of  all  the  maids,  and  after  the  first  cup 
drank  four  more.  When  Kirillovna  perceived 
that  her  visitor  was  somewhat  pacified,  and  only 
shuddered  from  time  to  time,  sobbing  faintly,  she 
asked  her  whither  they  intended  to  remove,  and 
what  they  wished  to  do  with  their  things.  This 
question  set  Avdotya  to  crying  again,  and  she  be- 

311 


THE  INN 

gan  to  asseverate  that  she  wanted  nothing  more, 
except  to  die;  but  Kirillovna,  being  a  woman  of 
brains,  immediately  stopped  her  and  advised  her 
to  set  about  transferring  her  things  that  very  day, 
without  useless  waste  of  time,  to  Akim's  former 
cottage  in  the  village,  where  dwelt  his  uncle,  that 
same  old  man  who  had  tried  to  dissuade  him  from 
marrying ;  she  announced  that,  with  the  mistress's 
permission,  they  would  be  furnished  with  trans- 
portation, and  the  aid  of  people  and  horses;  "  and 
as  for  you,  my  dearest," — added  Kirillovna,  com- 
pressing her  cat-like  lips  in  a  sour  smile, — "  there 
will  always  be  a  place  for  you  in  our  house,  and  it 
will  be  very  agreeable  to  us  if  you  will  be  our 
guest  until  you  recover  yourself  and  get  settled  in 
your  house.  The  principal  thing  is — you  must 
not  get  downcast.  The  Lord  gave,  the  Lord  has 
taken  away,  and  He  will  give  again:  everything 
depends  on  His  лvill.  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna,  of 
course,  was  obliged  to  sell  your  house,  according 
to  her  calculations,  but  she  will  not  forget  you, 
and  will  reward  you ;  she  bade  me  say  so  to  Akim 
Semyonitch.  .  .  Where  is  he  now?  " 

Avdotya  replied  that,  on  meeting  her,  he  had 
grossly  insulted  her,  and  had  driven  off  to  Chan- 
ter Efrem's. 

"To  that  creature's!  "—replied  Kirillovna, 
significantly. — "  Well,  I  understand  that  it  is 
painful  for  him  now,  and  I  don't  believe  you  can 

312 


THE  INN 

hunt  him  up  to-day.  What  is  to  be  done?  We 
must  take  measures,  Malashka," — she  added, 
turning  to  one  of  the  chambermaids.  "  Just  ask 
Nikanor  Ihtch  to  step  here;  I  will  have  a  talk 
with  him." 

Nikanor  Ihtch,  a  man  of  very  paltry  appear- 
ance, who  served  somewhat  in  the  capacity  of 
overseer,  immediately  presented  himself,  obsequi- 
ously listened  to  everything  which  Kirillovna  said 
to  him, — remarked:  "  It  shall  be  executed,"  left 
the  room  and  issued  his  orders.  Avdotya  was  fur- 
nished with  three  carts  and  three  peasants;  these 
were  voluntarily  joined  by  a  fourth,  who  said  of 
himself  that  he  would  be  "  more  intelligent  than 
they,"  and  she  set  off  in  company  with  them  for 
the  inn,  where  she  found  her  former  hired  men 
and  her  maid-servant,  Fetmya,  in  great  terror 
and  excitement.  .  .  . 

Naum's  recruits,  three  extremely  robust  young 
fellows,  had  arrived  in  the  morning,  and  had  gone 
nowhere  since,  but  had  maintained  a  very  zealous 
guard  over  the  inn,  according  to  Naum's  promise 
— so  zealous,  that  one  cart  speedily  proved  to  be 
devoid  of  tires.  .  . 

Bitter,  very  bitter  was  it  for  poor  Avdotya  to 
pack  up  her  things.  Despite  the  assistance  of  the 
"  intelligent  "  man,  who,  by  the  way,  knew  how  to 
do  nothing  but  stalk  about  with  a  staff  in  his 
hand,  and  watch  the  others,  and  spit  to  one  side, 

313 


THE  INN 

she  did  not  succeed  in  moving  out  that  day,  and 
remained  to  spend  the  night  in  the  inn,  having 
first  requested  Fetinya  not  to  leave  her  room; 
but  it  was  not  until  daybreak  that  she  fell  into  a 
feverish  doze,  and  the  tears  streamed  down  her 
cheeks  even  in  her  sleep. 

In  the  meantime,  Efrem  awoke  earlier  than 
was  his  wont  in  his  lumber-room,  and  began  to 
thump  and  demand  his  release.  At  first  his  wife 
would  not  let  him  out,  declaring  to  him  through 
the  door  that  he  had  not  yet  had  enough  sleep; 
but  he  excited  her  curiosity  by  promising  to  tell 
her  about  the  remarkable  thing  which  had  hap- 
pened to  Akim;  she  undid  the  latch. — Efrem  im- 
parted to  her  everything  he  knew,  and  wound  up 
with  the  question:  "  Was  he  awake  or  not?  " 

"Why,  the  Lord  knows," — replied  his  wife; 
— "  go  and  see  for  thyself;  he  has  not  climbed 
down  from  the  oven  yet. — You  both  got  pretty 
drunk  last  night;  thou  shouldst  just  see  thyself 
— thy  face  has  no  semblance  of  a  face;  't  is  like 
some  sort  of  ladle ;  and  what  a  lot  of  hay  has  got 
into  thy  hair!  " 

"  Never  mind  if  it  has," — returned  Efrem, — 
and  passing  his  hand  over  his  head,  he  entered  the 
house. — Akim  was  no  longer  asleep;  he  was  sit- 
ting on  the  oven  with  his  legs  dangling;  his  face 
also  was  very  strange  and  discomposed.  It  ap- 
peared all  the  more  distorted  because  Akim  was 
not  in  the  habit  of  drinking  heavily. 

314 


THE  INN 

"  Well,  how  now,  Akim  Semyonitch,  how  have 
you  slept?" — began  Efrem.  .  .  . 

Akim  looked  at  him  with  a  turbid  gaze. 

*'  Come,  brother  Efrem," — he  said  hoarsely, — 
"  can't  we  do  it  again — thou  knowest  what?  " 

Efrem  darted  a  swift  glance  at  Akim  ....  at 
that  moment  he  felt  a  sort  of  thrill;  that  is  the 
kind  of  sensation  a  sportsman  experiences  when 
standing  on  the  skirt  of  the  woods,  at  the  sudden 
yelping  of  his  hound  in  the  forest,  from  which,  ap- 
parently, all  the  wild  beasts  have  already  fled. 

"  What — more?  " — he  asked  at  last. 

"  Yes;  more." 

"  My  wife  will  see,"— thought  Efrem,— "and 
I  don't  believe  she  will  allow  it."—"  All  right, 
it  can  be  done,"— he  said  aloud; — "have  pa- 
tience."— He  went  out  and,  thanks  to  artfully 
conceived  measures,  succeeded  in  smuggling  in 
a  huge  bottle  unperceived  beneath  the  skirt  of  his 
coat.  .  .  . 

Akim  seized  the  bottle  .  .  .  But  Efrem  did  not 
start  to  drink  with  him  as  on  the  preceding  even- 
ing— he  was  afraid  of  his  wife,  and, — having  told 
Akim  that  he  would  go  and  see  how  things  were 
progressing  at  his  house,  and  how  his  belongings 
were  being  packed,  and  whether  he  were  not  being 
robbed, — he  immediately  set  off  for  the  inn  astride 
of  his  unfed  little  nag, — not  forgetting  himself, 
however,  if  we  may  take  into  consideration  his 
projecting  bosom. 

315 


THE  INN 

Soon  after  his  departure,  Akim  fell  asleep 
again,  and  lay  like  one  dead  on  the  oven.  .  .  .  He 
did  not  even  wake  up— at  all  events,  he  showed 
no  signs  of  being  awake — when  Efrem,  returning 
four  hours  later,  began  to  shove  him  and  try  to 
rouse  him,  and  whisper  over  him  some  extremely 
indistinct  words  to  the  effect  that  everything  was 
gone  and  transported  and  the  holy  pictures  were 
gone  too,  and  ever}i:hing  was  already  over — and 
that  every  one  was  hunting  for  him,  but  that  he, 
Efrem,  had  taken  due  measures,  and  had  pro- 
hibited .  .  .  and  so  forth.  But  he  did  not  whis- 
per long.  His  wife  led  him  off  to  the  lumber- 
room  again,  and  herself  lay  down  in  the  house, 
on  the  platform  over  the  oven,  in  great  indigna- 
tion at  her  husband  and  at  the  guest,  thanks  to 
whom  her  husband  had  got  drunk.  .  .  .  But 
when,  on  awakening  very  early,  according  to  her 
wont,  she  cast  a  glance  at  the  oven,  Akim  was 
no  longer  on  it.  .  .  .  The  cocks  had  not  yet 
crowed  for  the  second  time,  and  the  night  was 
still  so  dark  that  the  sky  was  barely  turning  grey 
directly  overhead,  and  at  the  rim  was  still  com- 
pletely drowned  in  vapour,  when  Akim  emerged 
from  the  gate  of  the  chanter's  house.  His  face 
was  pale,  but  he  darted  a  keen  glance  around 
him,  and  his  gait  did  not  betray  the  drunkard. 
.  .  .  He  walked  in  the  direction  of  his  former 
dwelling— the  inn,  which  had  already  definitively 
become  the  property  of  its  new  owner,  Naum. 

316 


THE  INN 

Naiim  луаз  not  sleeping  either,  at  the  time  when 
Akim  stealthily  quitted  Efrem's  house.  He  was 
not  asleep ;  he  w^as  lying  completely  dressed  on  the 
wall-bench,  with  his  sheepskin  coat  rolled  up 
under  his  head.  It  was  not  that  his  conscience 
was  tormenting  him — no!  he  had  been  present 
with  astounding  cold-bloodedness,  from  the 
morning  on,  at  the  packing  and  transportation  of 
Akim's  household  goods,  and  had  more  than  once 
spoken  to  Avdotya,  who  луаз  downcast  to  such  a 
degree  that  she  did  not  even  upbraid  him.  .  .  . 
His  conscience  was  at  ease,  but  divers  surmises 
and  calculations  occupied  his  mind.  He  did  not 
know  whether  he  was  going  to  make  a  success  of 
his  пелу  career ;  up  to  that  time,  he  had  never  kept 
an  inn — and,  generally  speaking,  had  never  even 
had  a  nook  of  his  own ;  and  so  he  could  not  get  to 
sleep. — "  This  little  affair  has  been  begun  well," 
— bethought; — "  what  will  the  future  be  ?  "  .  .  . 
When  the  last  cart-load  of  Akim's  effects  had  set 
off  just  before  night-fall  ( Avdotj^a  had  followed 
it  Aveeping) ,  he  had  inspected  the  entire  inn,  all 
the  stables,  cellars,  and  barns ;  he  had  crawled  up 
into  the  attic,  had  repeated^  ordered  his  labourers 
to  maintain  a  strict  watch,  and,  when  he  was  left 
alone  after  supper,  he  had  not  been  able  to  get 
to  sleep.  It  so  happened  that  on  that  day  none 
of  the  travellers  stopped  to  pass  the  night;  and 
this  pleased  him  greatly.  "  I  must  buy  a  dog 
without    fail    to-morrow,— the    worst-tempered 

317 


THE  INN 

dog  I  can  get,  from  the  miller;  for  they  have 
carried  off  theirs,"— he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
tossed  from  side  to  side,  and,  all  of  a  sudden,  he 
raised  his  head  hastily.  ...  It  seemed  to  him 
as  though  some  one  had  stolen  past  under  the 
window.  .  .  He  listened.  .  .  Not  a  sound.  Only 
a  grasshopper  shrilled  behind  the  oven,  from 
time  to  time,  and  a  mouse  was  gnawing  some- 
where, and  his  own  breath  was  audible.  All  was 
still  in  the  empty  room,  dimly  illuminated  by  the 
yellow  rays  of  a  tiny  glass  shrine-lamp,  which  he 
had  found  time  to  suspend  and  light  in  front  of  a 
small  holy  picture  in  the  corner.  .  .  He  lowered 
his  head;  and  now  again  he  seemed  to  hear  the 
gate  squeaking  ....  then  the  wattled  hedge 
crackled  faintly.  .  .  .  He  could  not  endure  it, 
leaped  to  his  feet,  opened  the  door  into  the  next 
room,  and  called  in  a  low  tone:  "  Feodor,  hey, 
Feodor!" — No  one  answered  him.  .  .  .  He  went 
out  into  the  anteroom  and  nearly  fell  prone,  as 
he  stumbled  over  Feodor,  who  was  sprawling  on 
the  floor.  The  labourer  stirred,  growhng  in  his 
sleep;  he  shook  him. 

"  Who  's  there?  What  's  wanted?  "—Feodor 
was  beginning.  .  .  . 

"What  art  thou  yelling  for?  Hold  thy 
tongue!" — articulated  Naum  in  a  whisper. — 
"  The  idea  of  your  sleeping,  you  damned  brutes! 
Hast  thou  not  heard  anything?  " 

"  No,"-rephed  the  man.  ..."  Why?  " 
318 


THE  INN 

"  And  where  are  the  others  sleeping?  " 

"  The  others  are  sleeping  where  they  were 
ordered  to.  .  .  .  But  has  anything  happened?  .  .  ." 

"  Silence I-Follow  me." 

Naiim  softly  opened  the  door  leading  from  the 
anteroom  into  the  yard.  .  .  .  Out  of  doors  every- 
thing was  very  dark ;  ...  it  was  possible  to  make 
out  the  sheds  with  their  pillars  only  because  they 
stood  out  still  more  densely  black  in  the  midst  of 
the  black  mist.  .  .  . 

*'  Sha'n't  I  light  a  lantern?  " — said  Feodor  in 
a  low  voice. 

But  Naum  waved  his  hand  and  held  his  breath. 
.  .  .  At  first  he  could  hear  nothing  except  those 
nocturnal  sounds  which  one  can  almost  always 
hear  in  inhabited  places:  a  horse  was  munching 
oats,  a  pig  grunted  once  faintly  in  its  sleep,  a 
man  was  snoring  somewhere ;  but  suddenly  there 
reached  his  ear  a  suspicious  sort  of  noise,  proceed- 
ing from  the  extreme  end  of  the  yard,  close  to  the 
fence.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  as  though  some  one  was  moving 
about,  and  breathing  or  blowing.  .  .  .  Naum 
looked  over  Feodor's  shoulder,  and,  cautiously 
descending  the  steps,  walked  in  the  direction  of 
the  sound.  ...  A  couple  of  times  he  halted,  and 
listened,  then  continued  to  creep  stealthily  on- 
ward. .  .  .  Suddenly  he  gave  a  start.  .  .  .  Ten 
paces  from  him,  in  the  dense  gloom,  a  point  of 
hght  suddenly  glimmered  brightly:  it  was  a  red- 

319 


THE  INN 

hot  coal,  and  beside  the  coal  there  showed  itself 
for  a  brief  instant  the  front  part  of  some  one's 
face,  with  lips  puffed  out.  .  .  .  Swiftly  and  si- 
lently Naum  darted  at  the  light,  as  a  cat  darts  at 
a  mouse.  .  .  .  Hastily  rising  from  the  ground, 
a  long  body  rushed  to  meet  him,  and  almost 
knocked  him  from  his  feet,  almost  slipped  through 
his  hands,  but  he  clung  to  it  with  all  his  might.  . . . 

"  Feodor!  Andrei!  Petrushka!  " — he  shouted, 
at  the  top  of  his  lungs ;—"  come  here  quick,  quick ! 
I  've  caught  a  thief,  an  incendiary!  " 

The  man  whom  he  had  captured  struggled 
and  resisted  ....  but  Naum  did  not  release 
him.  .  .  .  Feodor  immediately  darted  to  his  as- 
sistance. 

"  A  lantern,  quick,  a  lantern!  Run  for  a  lan- 
tern! wake  the  others,  be  quick!  "  —  Naum  shouted 
to  him, — "  and  I  '11  manage  him  alone  meanwhile 
—  I  '11  sit  on  him.  .  .  Be  quick!  and  fetch  a  belt 
to  bind  him  with!  " 

Feodor  flew  to  the  cottage.  .  .  .  The  man  whom 
Naum  was  holding  suddenly  ceased  his  resist- 
ance. .  .  . 

"  So,  evidently,  't  is  nol  enough  for  thee  to 
have  taken  my  wife  and  my  money,  and  my  house, 
but  thou  art  bent  on  destroying  me  also," — he 
said  in  a  dull  tone.  .  .  . 

Naum  recognised  Akim's  voice. 

"  So  't  is  thou,  dear  little  dove," — said  he;^ 
"  good,  just  wait  a  bit!  " 

320 


THE  INN 

"  Let  me  go,"— said  Akim.— "  Art  not  thou 
satisfied?  " 

"  See  here,  to-morrow  I  '11  show  you  in  the 
presence  of  the  judge  how  satisfied  I  am.  .  .  ." 
And  Naum  tightened  his  hold  on  Akim.  .  .  . 

The  labourers  ran  up  with  two  lanterns  and 
some  ropes.  .  .  .  "Bind  him!" — ordered  Naum, 
sharply.  .  .  .  The  labourers  seized  Akim,  lifted 
him  up,  and  bound  his  hands  behind  him.  .  .  . 
One  of  them  was  beginning  to  swear,  but  on 
recognising  the  former  landlord  of  the  inn,  he 
held  his  peace,  and  merely  exchanged  glances 
with  the  others. 

"  Just  see  there,  see  there,  now," — Naum  kept 
repeating  the  while,  as  he  passed  the  lantern  along 
the  ground; — "  yonder,  there  are  coals  in  a  pot; 
just  look,  he  has  brought  a  whole  firebrand  in 
the  pot — we  must  find  out  where  he  got  that 
pot  .  .  .  and  here,  he  has  broken  twigs.  .  .  ." 
And  Naum  assiduously  stamped  out  the  fire  with 
his  foot.— "  Search  him,  Feodor!"— he  added, 
"  and  see  whether  he  has  anything  more  about 
him." 

Feodor  searched  and  felt  Akim,  who  stood 
motionless  with  his  head  drooping  on  his  breast, 
like  a  dead  man. — "  There  is — here  's  a  knife," — 
said  Feodor,  drawing  an  old  kitchen-knife  from 
Akim's  breast. 

"  Ehe,  my  dear  fellow,  so  that  's  what  thou 
hadst  in  mind!  "—exclaimed  Naum.—"  You  are 

321 


THE  INN 

witnesses,  my  lads— see  there,  he  intended  to  cut 
my  throat,  to  burn  up  my  house.  .  .  .  Lock  him 
up  in  the  cellar  until  morning;  he  can't  get  out 
of  there.  ...  I  will  stand  watch  all  night  myself, 
and  to-morrow  at  dawn  we  will  take  him  to  the 
chief  of  police  ....  and  you  are  witnesses,  do 
you  hear.  ..." 

They  thrust  Akfm  into  the  cellar,  and  slammed 
the  door  behind  him.  .  .  .  Naum  stationed  two 
of  the  labourers  there,  and  did  not  lie  down  to 
sleep  himself. 

In  the  meantime,  Efrem's  wife,  having  con- 
vinced herself  that  her  unbidden  guest  had  taken 
himself  off,  was  on  the  point  of  beginning  her 
cooking,  although  it  was  hardly  daylight  out  of 
doors  as  yet.  She  squatted  down  by  the  oven  to 
get  some  coals,  and  saw  that  some  one  had  already 
raked  out  the  live  embers  thence;  then  she  be- 
thought herself  of  her  knife — and  did  not  fmd 
it;  in  conclusion,  one  of  her  four  pots  was  miss- 
ing. Efrem's  wife  bore  the  reputation  of  being 
anything  but  a  stupid  woman— and  with  good 
reason.  She  stood  for  a  while  in  thought,  then 
went  to  the  lumber-room  to  her  husband.  It  was 
not  easy  to  arouse  him  fully — and  still  more  diffi- 
cult was  it  to  make  him  understand  why  he  had 
been  awakened.  .  .  To  everything  which  his  wife 
said,  Chanter  Efrem  made  one  and  the  same 
reply: 

"  He  's  gone, — well,  God  be  with  him  .  .  . 
322 


THE  INN 

but  what  business  is  that  of  mine  ?  He  has  carried 
oif  a  knife  and  a  pot — well,  God  be  with  him — 
but  what  business  is  that  of  mine?  " 

But,  at  last,  he  rose,  and  after  listening  in- 
tentlj'^  to  his  wife,  he  decided  that  it  was  a  bad 
business,  and  that  it  could  not  be  left  as  it  now 
stood. 

"  Yes," — the  chanter's  wife  insisted, — "  't  is  a 
bad  business;  I  do  believe  he  '11  do  mischief  out 
of  desperation.  ...  I  noticed  last  night  that  he 
was  not  asleep  as  he  lay  there  on  the  oven;  it 
would  n't  be  a  bad  idea  for  thee,  Efrem  Alexan- 
dritch,  to  find  out  whether  .  .  .  ." 

"  See  here,  Ulyana  Feodorovna,  I  '11  tell  thee 
what," —  began  Efrem; — "  I  '11  go  to  the  inn 
myself  immediately;  and  do  thou  be  kind,  dear 
little  mother;  give  me  a  little  glass  of  liquor  to 
cure  me  of  my  drunkenness." 

Ulyana  reflected. 

"  Well,"— she  decided  at  last,—"  I  '11  give  thee 
some  liquor,  Efrem  Alexandritch ;  only  look  out, 
don't  dally." 

"  Be  at  ease,  Ulyana  Feodorovna." 

And,  having  fortified  himself  with  a  glass  of 
liquor,  Efrem  set  out  for  the  inn. 

Day  had  but  just  dawned  when  he  rode  up  to 
the  inn,  and  at  the  gate  a  cart  was  already  stand- 
ing harnessed,  and  one  of  Naum's  labourers  was 
sitting  on  the  driver's  seat,  holding  the  reins  in  his 
hands. 

323 


THE  INN 

"  Whither  art  thou  going?  "— Efrem  asked 
him. 

"  To  town,"— rephed  the  labourer. 

"Why?" 

The  labourer  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  made  no  reply.  Efrem  sprang  from  his 
horse  and  entered  the  house.  In  the  anteroom 
he  ran  across  Naum,  fully  dressed,  and  wearing 
a  cap. 

"  I  congratulate  the  new  landlord  on  his  new 
domicile," — said  Efrem,  who  was  personally  ac- 
quainted with  him. — "  Whither  away  so  early?  " 

"  Yes,  there  is  cause  for  congratulation," — 
replied  Naum,  surlily.—"  This  is  my  first  day, 
and  I  have  almost  been  burnt  out." 

Efrem  started.  —  "  How  so?  " 

"  Why,  just  that;  a  kind  man  turned  up,  who 
tried  to  set  the  house  on  fire.  Luckily,  I  caught 
him  in  the  act;  now  I  'm  taking  him  to  town." 

"  It  can't  be  Akim,  can  it? "  .  .  .  .  asked 
Efrem,  slowly. 

"And  how  dost  thou  know?  It  is  Akim. 
He  came  by  night,  лvith  a  firebrand  in  a  pot,  and 
had  already  crept  into  the  yard,  and  laid  a  fire 
.  .  .  .  All  my  lads  are  witnesses. — Wouldst  like 
to  take  a  look?  But,  by  the  way,  't  is  high  time 
we  were  carrying  him  off." 

"  Dear  little  father,  Naum  Ivanitch,"— began 
Efrem,—"  release  him;  don't  utterly  ruin  the  old 
man.     Don't  take  that  sin  on  your  soul,  Naum 

324 


THE  INN 

Ivanitch.  Just  reflect,— the  man  is  desperate, — 
he  has  lost,  you  know  .  .  .  ." 

"Stop  that  prating!  "—Naum  interrupted 
him. — "  The  ideal  As  though  I  would  let  him 
go  I  Why,  he  would  set  me  on  fire  again  to- 
morrow. ..." 

"  He  will  not  do  it,  Naiim  Ivanitch,  believe 
me.  Believe  me,  you  yourself  will  be  more  at 
ease  so — for,  you  see,  there  will  be  inquiries— the 
court — you  surely  know  what  I  mean." 

"  Well,  and  what  about  the  court?  I  have  no- 
thing to  fear  from  the  court.  ..." 

"  Dear  little  father,  Naum  Ivanitch,  how  can 
you  help  fearing  the  court?  .  .  ." 

"  Eh,  stop  that ;  I  see  that  thou  art  drunk  early, 
and  to-day  is  a  feast-day,  to  boot." 

Efrem  suddenly,  and  quite  unexpectedly,  fell 
to  weeping. 

"  I  am  drunk,  but  I  'm  speaking  the  truth," — 
he  blurted  out.  — "  But  do  you  release  him,  in 
honour  of  Christ's  festival." 

"  Come,  let 's  be  starting,  cry-baby." 

And  Naum  went  out  on  the  porch.  .  .  . 

"  Forgive  him  for  Avdotya  Arefyevna's  sake," 
— said  Efrem,  following  him. 

Naiim  approached  the  cellar,  and  threw  the 
door  wide  open.  Efrem,  with  timorous  curiosity, 
craned  his  neck  from  behind  Naiim's  back,  and 
with  difficulty  made  out  Akim  in  one  corner  of 
the  shallow  cellar.     The  former  wealthy  house- 

325 


THE  INN 

holder,  the  man  respected  in  all  the  countryside, 
was  sitting  with  pinioned  arms  on  the  straw,  like 
a  criminal.  .  .  On  hearing  the  noise,  he  raised  his 
head.  .  .  .  He  seemed  to  have  grown  frightfully 
thin  in  the  last  two  days,  especially  during  the 
last  night— his  sunken  eyes  were  hardly  visible  be- 
neath his  lofty  brow,  yellow  as  wax,  his  parched 
hps  had  turned  dark  ...  his  whole  face  had 
undergone  a  change,  and  assumed  a  strange  ex- 
pression :  both  harsh  and  terrified. 

"  Get  up  and  come  out," — said  Naiim. 

Akim  rose,  and  stepped  across  the  threshold. 

"  Akim  Semyonitch,"— roared  Efrem, — "  thou 
hast  ruined  thyself,  my  dear  man!  " 

Akim  glanced  at  him  in  silence. 

"  If  I  had  known  why  thou  didst  ask  for  liquor, 
I  would  n't  have  given  it  to  thee;  indeed,  I 
would  n't !  I  do  believe  I  would  have  drunk  it  all 
myself!  Ekh,  Naum  Ivanitch,"— added  Efrem, 
seizing  Naum  by  the  hand; — "have  mercy  on 
him,  let  him  go!  " 

"  Thou  'rt  joking,"— retorted  Naiim,  with  a 
grin. — "  Come  out,  there,"— he  added,  again  ad- 
dressing Akim-  .  .  "  What  art  thou  waiting 
for?  " 

"  Naum  Ivanoff ,"  ....  began  Akim. 

"  What? " 

"  Naum  Ivanoff,"— repeated  Akim;—"  listen; 
I  am  guilty ;  I  wanted  to  punish  thee  myself ;  but 
God  must  judge  between  thou  and  me.     Thou 

326 


THE  INN 

hast  taken  everything  from  me,  thou  knowest  that 
thyself — everything,  to  the  very  last  morsel. — 
Now  thou  canst  ruin  me,  and  this  is  all  I  have  to 
say  to  thee:  If  thou  wilt  release  me  now — well! 
let  things  stand!  do  thou  possess  everything!  I 
agree,  and  wish  thee  all  success.  And  I  say  to 
thee,  as  in  the  presence  of  God :  If  thou  dost  re- 
lease me — thou  shalt  not  regret  it.  God  bless 
thee!" 

Akim  shut  his  eyes,  and  ceased  speaking. 

" Certainly,  certainly," — retorted  Naiim; — "as 
though  one  could  trust  thee!  " 

"But  thou  canst,  by  God,  thou  canst!  " — said 
Efrem;  "really,  thou  canst.  I  'm  ready  to  go 
bail  for  Akim  Semyonitch  with  my  head — come 
now,  really!  " 

"  Nonsense!  "—exclaimed  Naum,— "  Let 's  be 
off!" 

Akim  looked  at  him. 

"  As  thou  wilt,  Naum  Ivanitch.  Thou  hast 
the  power.  Only,  thou  art  taking  a  great  deal  on 
thy  soul.  All  right,  if  thou  art  impatient, — let  us 
start.  .  .  ." 

Naum,  in  his  turn,  darted  a  keen  glance  at 
Akim.  "But  it  really  would  be  better," — he 
thought  to  himself,  "  to  let  him  go  to  the  devil! 
Otherwise,  folks  will  devour  me  alive.  There  '11 
be  no  living  for  Avdotya."  ....  While  Naum 
was  reasoning  with  himself  no  one  uttered  a  sin- 
gle word.  The  labourer  on  the  cart,  who  could  see 

327 


THE  INN 

everything  through  the  gate,  merely  shook  his 
head  and  slapped  ihe  reins  on  the  horse's  back. 
The  other  two  labourers  stood  on  the  porch  and 
also  maintained  silence. 

"  Come,  listen  to  me,  old  man," — began  Naum; 
— "if  I  let  thee  go, — and  I  forbid  these  fine  fel- 
lows "  (he  nodded  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the 
labourers)  "  to  blab;  shall  we  be  quits,  thou  and  I 
— thou  understandest  me — quits  ....  hey?  " 

"  Possess  everything,  I  say." 

"  Thou  wilt  not  consider  me  in  thy  debt?  " 

"  Thou  wilt  not  be  in  debt  to  me,  neither  shall  I 
be  in  debt  to  thee."  Again  Naum  was  silent  for  a 
space. 

"  Well,  take  thy  oath  on  that!  " 

"  I  do,  as  God  is  holy,"— replied  Akim. 

"  Here  goes  then,  although  I  know  before- 
hand that  I  shall  repent  of  it," — remarked  Naum. 
— *'  But  so  be  it!    Give  me  your  hands." 

Akim  turned  his  back  toward  him;  Naum  be- 
gan to  unbind  him. 

"  Look  out,  old  man,"— he  added,  as  he  slipped 
the  rope  over  his  wrists: — "remember,  I  have 
spared  thee;  be  careful!  " 

"  You  're  a  dear,  Naum  Ivanitch," — stam- 
mered the  deeply-moved  Efrem. — "  The  Lord 
will  be  merciful  to  you!  " 

Akim  stretched  out  his  chilled  and  swollen 
arms,  and  was  starting  for  the  gate.  .  .  . 

All  of  a  sudden  Naum  "  turned  Jewish,"  as 
328 


THE  INN 

the  expression  is — evidently,  he  was  sorry  that  he 
had  released  Akim.  .  .  . 

"  Thou  hast  taken  an  oath,  look  out," — he 
shouted  after  him. 

Akim  turned  round,  and  surveying  the  house 
with  an  embracing  glance,  said  sadly: — "  Possess 
thou  everything,  forever,  undisturbed  .... 
farewell." 

And  he  stepped  quietly  into  the  street,  accom- 
panied by  Efrem.  Naum  waved  his  hand,  or- 
dered the  cart  to  be  unharnessed,  and  went  back 
into  the  house. 

"  Whither  away,  Akim  Semyonitch?  Art  not 
thou  coming  to  my  house?  "—exclaimed  Efrem, 
— perceiving  that  Akim  turned  to  the  right  from 
the  highway. 

"  No,  Efremushka,  thanks,"— replied  Akim. 
..."  I  will  go  and  see  what  my  wife  is  doing." 

"  Thou  canst  see  later  on.  .  .  .  But  now  thou 
must  for  joy  .  .  thou  knowest  .  .  .  ." 

"  No,  thanks,  Efrem.  .  .  .  I  've  had  enough 
as  it  is.  Farewell." — And  Akim  walked  away 
without  looking  behind  him. 

"  Eka!  He  has  had  enough  as  it  is!  " — ejacu- 
lated the  astounded  chanter; — "  and  I  have  taken 
my  oath  on  his  behalf!  Well,  I  did  n't  expect 
this," — he  added  with  vexation, — "  after  I  had 
vouched  for  him.    Phew!" 

He  remembered  that  he  had  forgotten  to  take 
his  knife  and  pot,  and  returned  to  the  inn.  .  .  . 

329 


THE  INN 

Naum  gave  orders  that  his  things  should  be  de- 
livered to  him,  but  it  never  entered  his  head  to 
entertain  him.  Thoroughly  enraged  and  com- 
pletely sober  he  presented  himself  at  home. 

"  Well,  what?  "—his  wife  asked  him;—"  didst 
thou  find  him? " 

"Did  I  find  him?  "—retorted  Efrem;— "cer- 
tainly I  found  him;  there  are  thy  utensils  for 
thee." 

"  Akim?  " — inquired  his  wife,  with  special  em- 
phasis. 

Efrem  nodded  his  head. 

"  Yes,  Akim.  But  what  a  goose  he  is !  I  went 
bail  for  him ;  without  me  he  would  have  been  put 
in  prison,  and  he  never  even  treated  me  to  a 
glass  of  liquor.  Ulyana  Feodorovna,  do  you,  at 
least,  show  me  consideration;  give  me  just  one 
little  glass." 

But  Ulyana  Feodorovna  showed  him  no  con- 
sideration and  drove  him  out  of  her  sight. 

In  the  meantime,  Akim  was  proceeding  with 
quiet  strides  along  the  road  which  led  to  Lizaveta 
Prokhorovna's  village.  He  had  not  yet  been 
able  fully  to  recover  himself ;  he  was  all  quivering 
inside,  like  a  man  who  has  but  just  escaped  immi- 
nent death.  He  seemed  not  to  believe  in  his  free- 
dom. With  dull  amazement  he  stared  at  the  fields, 
at  the  sky,  at  the  larks  which  were  fluttering  their 
wings  in  the  warm  air.  On  the  previous  day,  at 
Efrem's  house,  he  had  not  slept  at  all  since 

330 


THE  INN 

dinner,  although  he  had  lain  motionless  on  the 
oven ;  at  first  he  had  tried  to  drown  with  liquor  the 
intolerable  pain  of  injury  within  him,  the  an- 
guish of  wrathful,  impotent  indignation  .... 
but  the  liquor  could  not  entirely  overcome  him; 
his  heart  waxed  hot  within  him,  and  he  began 
to  meditate  how  he  might  pay  off  his  malefactor. 
.  .  .  He  thought  of  Naum  alone;  Lizaveta  Pro- 
khorovna  did  not  enter  his  head,  and  from  Avdo- 
tya  he  mentally  turned  away.  Toward  evening, 
the  thirst  for  revenge  had  blazed  up  in  him  to 
the  point  of  crime,  and  he,  the  good-natured,  weak 
man,  with  feverish  impatience  waited  for  the 
night,  and  like  a  wolf  pouncing  on  its  prey,  he 
rushed  forth  with  fire  in  his  hand  to  annihilate 
his  former  home.  .  .  But  he  had  been  captured 
....  locked  up.  .  .  .  Night  came.  What  had 
not  he  turned  over  in  his  mind  during  that  atro- 
cious night!  It  is  difficult  to  convey  in  words 
all  the  tortures  which  he  had  undergone;  it  is 
all  the  more  difficult,  because  these  torments  even 
in  the  man  himself  were  wordless  and  dumb.  .  .  . 
Toward  morning,  before  the  arrival  of  Naum 
and  Efrem,  Akim  had  felt  somewhat  easier  in 
mind.  .  .  "  Everything  is  lost!  "  ....  he  thought 
.  .  .  .  "  every  thing  is  scattered  to  the  winds !  " — 
and  he  waved  his  hand  in  despair  over  everything. 
...  If  he  had  been  born  with  an  evil  soul,  he 
might  have  turned  into  a  criminal  at  that  mo- 
ment; but  evil  was  not  a  characteristic  of  Akim. 

331 


THE  INN 

Beneath  the  shock  of  the  unexpected  and  unde- 
served calamity,  in  the  reek  of  despair,  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  a  felonious  deed;  it  had 
shaken  him  to  the  very  foundations,  and,  having 
miscarried,  it  had  left  behind  in  him  a  profound 
weariness.  .  .  .  Conscious  of  his  guilt,  he 
wrenched  his  heart  free  from  all  earthly  things ; 
and  began  to  pray  bitterly  but  zealously.  At 
first  he  prayed  in  a  whisper,  at  last,  accidentally, 
perhaps,  he  ejaculated  almost  aloud:  "  О  Lord!  " 
— and  the  tears  gushed  from  his  eyes.  .  .  .  Long 
did  he  weep,  then  calmed  down  at  last.  .  .  .  His 
thoughts  probably  would  have  undergone  a 
change,  had  he  been  forced  to  smart  for  his  at- 
tempt of  the  day  before  .  .  .  but  now  he  had 
suddenly  recovered  his  liberty  .  .  .  and,  half- 
alive,  all  shattered,  but  calm,  he  was  on  his  way 
to  an  interview  with  his  wife. 

Lizaveta  Prokhorovna's  manor  stood  a  verst 
and  a  half  distant  from  her  village,  on  the  left- 
hand  side  of  the  country  road  along  which  Akim 
was  walking.  At  the  turn  which  led  to  the  manor, 
he  was  on  the  point  of  pausing  ....  but  he 
marched  past.  He  had  decided  first  to  go  to  his 
former  cottage,  to  his  old  uncle. 

Akim's  tiny  and  already  rickety  cottage  was 
situated  almost  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  village ; 
Akim  traversed  the  entire  length  of  the  street 
without  encountering  a  single  soul.  The  whole 
population  was  in  church.     Only  one  ailing  old 

332 


THE  INN 

woman  lifted  her  window  to  gaze  after  him,  and 
a  little  girl,  who  had  run  out  to  the  well  with  an 
empty  bucket,  gaped  in  wonder  at  him  and  also 
followed  him  with  her  eyes.  The  first  person 
whom  he  met  was  precisely  the  uncle  whom  he 
was  seeking.  The  old  man  had  been  sitting  since 
early  morning  on  the  earthen  bank  outside  the 
cottage  under  the  windows,  taking  snuff,  and 
warming  himself  in  the  sun;  he  was  not  quite 
well,  and  for  that  reason  had  not  gone  to  church ; 
he  was  on  his  way  to  see  another  ailing  old  man, 
a  neighbour,  when  he  suddenly  espied  Akim.  .  .  . 
He  stopped  short,  let  the  latter  come  up  to  him, 
and  looking  him  in  the  face,  he  said: 

"  Morning,  Akimushka!  " 

"  Morning," — replied  Akim,  and  stepping 
past  the  old  man,  he  entered  the  gate  to  his  cot- 
tage. ...  In  the  yard  stood  his  horses,  his  cow, 
his  cart;  and  his  chickens  луеге  roaming  about 
there  also.  .  .  .  He  entered  the  cottage  in  si- 
lence. The  old  man  followed  him.  Akim  seated 
himself  on  the  bench,  and  rested  his  clenched  fists 
on  it.  The  old  man  gazed  compassionately  at 
him,  from  his  stand  at  the  door. 

"And  where  is  my  housewife?" — inquired 
Akim. 

"  Why,  at  the  manor-house," — replied  the  old 
man,  briskly.  "  She  is  there.  They  have  placed 
thy  cattle  here,  and  thy  coffers,  just  as  they  were 
— but  she  is  yonder.    Shall  I  go  for  her?  " 

333 


THE  INN 

Akim  did  not  reply  immediately. 

"  Yes,  go," — he  said  at  last. 

"  Ekh,  uncle,  uncle,"— he  articulated  with  a 
sigh,  while  the  latter  was  taking  his  cap  from  its 
nail:—"  dost  thou  remember  what  thou  saidst 
to  me  on  the  eve  of  my  wedding?  " 

"  God's  will  rules  all  things,  Akimushka." 

"  Dost  thou  remember  how  thou  saidst  to  me 
that  I  was  no  fit  mate  for  you  peasants — and 
now  see  what  a  pass  things  have  come  to.  ...  I 
myself  have  become  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse." 

"  A  man  can't  make  calculations  against  bad 
people," — replied  the  old  man; — "and  as  for 
him,  the  dishonest  scoundrel,  if  any  one  were  to 
teach  him  a  good  lesson,  some  gentleman,  for 
instance,  or  any  other  power, — what  cause  would 
there  be  to  fear  him?  The  wolf  recognised  his 
prey." — And  the  old  man  put  on  his  cap  and 
departed. 

Avdotya  had  but  just  returned  from  church 
when  she  was  informed  that  her  husband's  uncle 
was  inquiring  for  her.  Up  to  that  time  she  had 
very  rarely  seen  him ;  he  had  not  been  in  the  habit 
of  coming  to  their  inn,  and  in  general  he  bore 
the  reputation  of  being  a  queer  fellow;  he  was 
passionately  fond  of  snuff,  and  preserved  silence 
most  of  the  time. 

She  went  out  to  him. 

"  What  dost  thou  want,  Petrovitch?  Has  any= 
thing  happened,  pray?  " 

334 


THE  INN 

"  Nothing  has  hajDpened,  Avdotya  Arefyevna; 
thy  husband  is  asking  for  thee." 

"Has  he  returned?  " 

"  Yes." 

"But  where  is  he?" 

"  Why,  in  the  village;  he  's  sitting  in  his  cot- 
tage." 

Avdotya  quailed. 

"  Well,  Petrovitch," — she  asked,  looking  him 
straight  in  the  eye,—"  is  he  angry?  " 

"  'T  is  not  perceptible  that  he  is." 

Avdotya  dropped  her  eyes. 

"  Well,  come  along," — she  said,  throwing  on  a 
large  kerchief,  and  the  two  set  out.  They  walked 
in  silence  until  they  reached  the  village.  But 
when  they  began  to  draw  near  to  the  cottage,  Av- 
dotya was  seized  with  such  alarm  that  her  knees 
trembled  under  her. 

"  Dear  little  father,  Petrovitch," — she  said, — 
"  do  thou  go  in  first.  .  .  .  Tell  him  that  I  have 
come." 

Petrovitch  entered  the  cottage  and  found  Akim 
sitting  buried  in  profound  thought,  on  the  self- 
same spot  where  he  had  left  him. 

"  Well,"— said  Akim,  raising  his  head; — 
"  has  n't  she  come?  " 

"  Yes,  she  has  come,"— replied  the  old  man.— 
"  She  's  standing  at  the  gate.  .  .  ." 

"  Send  her  hither." 

The  old  man  went  out,  waved  his  hand  to 
335 


THE  INN 

Avdotya,  said  to  her:  "  Go  along!  "  and  sat  down 
again  himself  on  the  earthen  bank  along  the  cot- 
tage wall.  With  trepidation  Avdotya  opened 
the  door,  crossed  the  threshold  and  paused.  .  .  . 

Akim  looked  at  her. 

"  Well,  Arefyevna,"— he  began,—"  what  are 
we — thou  and  I — to  do  now?  " 

"  Forgive  me," — she  whispered. 

"  Ekh,  Arefyevna,  we  are  all  sinful  folks. 
What  's  the  use  of  discussing  it!  " 

"  That  villain  has  ruined  both  of  us,"— began 
Avdotya  in  a  voice  which  jingled  and  broke,  and 
the  tears  streamed  down  her  face.  — "  Thou  must 
not  let  things  stand  as  they  are,  Akim  Semyo- 
nitch;  thou  must  get  the  money  from  him.  Do 
not  spare  me.  I  am  ready  to  declare  under  oath 
that  I  lent  the  money  to  him.  Lizaveta  Prokho- 
rovna  had  a  right  to  sell  our  house,  but  why 
should  he  rob  us?  ...  .  Get  the  money  from 
him." 

"  I  have  no  money  to  receive  from  him," — re- 
plied Akim,  gloomily.  —  "  He  and  I  have  settled 
our  accounts." 

Avdotya  was  astounded.—"  How  so?  " 

"  Why,  because  we  have.  Knowest  thou,"— 
pursued  Akim,  and  his  eyes  began  to  blaze; — 
"  knowest  thou  where  I  spent  the  night?  Thou 
dost  not  know?  In  Naum's  cellar,  bound  hand 
and  foot,  like  a  ram,  that  's  where  I  spent  last 
night.     I  tried  to  burn  down  his  house,  and  he 

336 


THE  INN 

caught  me,  did  Naum ;  he  's  awfully  clever !  And 
to-day  he  was  preparing  to  carry  me  to  the  town, 
but  he  pardoned  me;  consequently,  there  is  no 
money  coming  to  me  from  him.  .  .  .  '  And  when 
did  I  ever  borrow  any  money  of  thee? '  he  will 
say.  And  am  I  to  say : '  My  wife  took  it  out  from 
under  my  floor,  and  carried  it  to  thee? ' — '  Thy 
wife  is  a  liar,'  he  will  say.  And  would  n't  it  be 
a  big  exposure  for  thee,  Arefyevna?  Hold  thy 
tongue,  rather,  I  tell  thee,  hold  thy  tongue." 

"  Forgive  me,  Semyonitch,  forgive  me," — 
whispered  the  thoroughly  frightened  Avdotya. 

"  That  's  not  the  point,"— replied  Akim,  after 
remaining  silent  for  a  while: — "  but  what  are  we 
— thou  and  I — to  do?  We  no  longer  have  a  home 
.  .  .  nor  money  either.  .  .  ." 

"  We  '11  get  along  somehow,  Akim  Semyo- 
nitch;— we  will  ask  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  and 
she  will  help  us;  Kirillovna  has  promised  me 
that." 

"  No,  Arefyevna,  thou  may  est  ask  her  for  thy- 
self along  with  thy  Kirillovna;  thou  and  she  are 
birds  of  a  feather.^  But  I  '11  tell  thee  what:  do 
thou  stay  here,  with  God's  blessing.  I  shall  not 
stay  here.  Luckily,  we  have  no  children,  and 
perhaps  I  shall  not  starve  alone.  One  person 
can  worry  along  alone." 

"  What  wilt  thou  do,  Semyonitch — dost  mean 
to  go  as  carrier  again?  " 

*  In  Russian:  *'  Berries  from  the  same  field."— Translator. 

337 


THE  INN 

Akim  laughed  bitterly. 

"  A  pretty  carrier  I  would  make,  there  's  no 
denying  that !  A  fine,  dasliing  young  fellow  thou 
hast  picked  out!  No,  Arefyevna,  that  is  not  the 
same  sort  of  business  as  marrying,  for  example; 
an  old  man  is  not  fit  for  it.  Only  I  will  not  re- 
main here,  that 's  what ;  I  won't  have  people  point- 
ing the  finger  at  me  ....  understand?  I  shall 
go  to  pray  away  my  sins,  Arefyevna,  that 's  where 
I  shall  go." 

"  What  sins  hast  thou,  Semyonitch?  " — articu- 
lated Avdotya,  timidly. 

"  Well,  wife,  I  know  what  they  are." 

"  But  in  whose  care  wilt  thou  leave  me,  Semyo- 
nitch?   How  am  I  to  live  without  a  husband?  " 

"  In  whose  care  shall  I  leave  thee?  Ekh,  Are- 
fyevna, how  thou  sayest  that,  forsooth!  Much 
need  hast  thou  of  a  husband  like  me,  and  an  old 
man  and  a  ruined  one  to  boot.  The  idea!  Thou 
has  dispensed  with  me  before,  thou  canst  dispense 
with  me  hereafter  also.  And  what  property  we 
have  left  thou  mayest  take  for  thyself,  curse 
it!  ....  " 

"  As  thou  wilt,  Semyonitch,"— replied  Avdo- 
tya, sadly; — "  thou  knowest  best  about  that." 

"  Exactly  so.  Only,  don't  think  that  I  am 
angry  with  thee,  Arefyevna. 

"  No,  what  's  the  use  of  being  angry,  when 
....  I  ought  to  have  discovered  how  things 
stood  earlier  in  the  day.    I  myself  am  to  blame— 

338 


THE  INN 

and  I  am  punished."—  (Akim  heaved  a  sigh.)  — 
"  As  you  have  made  j^our  bed,  so  j^u  must  lie 
upon  it.^  I  am  advanced  in  years,  and  't  is  time 
for  me  to  be  thinking  of  my  soul.  The  Lord  Him- 
self has  brought  me  to  my  senses.  Here  was  I, 
seest  thou,  an  old  fool,  who  wanted  to  live  at 
his  ease  with  a  young  wife.  .  .  .  No,  brother- 
old  man,  first  do  thou  pray,  and  beat  thy  brow 
against  the  earth,  and  be  patient,  and  fast.  .  .  . 
And  now,  go,  my  mother.  I  am  very  tired  and 
I  will  get  a  bit  of  sleep." 

And  Akim  stretched  himself  out,  grunting  on 
the  bench. 

Avdotya  started  to  say  something,  stood  for 
a  while  gazing  at  him,  then  turned  and  went 
away.  .  .  . 

"Well,  did  n't  he  thrash  thee?  "— Petrovitch 
asked  her,  as  he  sat,  all  bent  double,  on  the 
earthen  bank,  when  she  came  alongside  of  him. 
Avdotya  passed  him  in  silence.  —  "  See  there  now, 
he  did  n't  beat  her," — said  the  old  man  to  himself, 
as  he  grinned,  ruffled  up  his  hair,  and  took  a  pinch 
of  snuff. 

Akim  carried  out  his  purpose.  He  speedily 
put  his  petty  affairs  in  order,  and  a  few  days 
after  the  conversation  which  we  have  transcribed, 
he  went,  already  garbed  for  the  journey,  to  bid 

1  In  Russian:  "If  you  are  fond  of  sleighing,  then  be  fond  also 
of  dragging  the  sledge."— Translator- 

339 


THE  INN 

farewell  to  his  wife,  who  had  settled  for  the  time 
being  in  a  tiny  wing  of  the  mistress's  manor- 
house.  Their  leave-taking  did  not  last  long.  .  .  . 
Kirillovna,  who  chanced  to  be  on  hand,  advised 
Akim  to  present  himself  to  the  mistress;  and  he 
did  so.  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  received  him  with 
a  certain  amount  of  confusion,  but  affably  per- 
mitted him  to  kiss  her  hand,  and  inquired  where 
he  was  intending  to  betake  himself?  He  replied 
that  he  was  going  first  to  Kieff ,  and  thence  where- 
ever  God  should  grant.  She  lauded  his  purpose, 
and  dismissed  him.  From  that  time  forth  he 
rarely  made  his  appearance  at  home,  although 
he  never  forgot  to  bring  his  mistress  a  blessed 
bread  лvith  a  particle  taken  out  for  her  health. .  .  } 

1  Tiny  double  loaves  of  leavened  bread,  like  those  used  in  preparing 
the  Holy  Communion,  are  sold  at  the  entrances  to  churches.  Any 
one  who  wishes  to  have  the  health  of  his  living  or  the  souls  of  his 
dead  friend  prayed  for,  buys  a  loaf,  and  sends  it  to  the  sanctuary 
before  the  beginning  of  the  morning  service,  accompanied  by  a  slip 
of  paper,  whereon  is  written:  "For  the  health"  (or  "For  the  soul") 
"of  Ivan  "—or  whatever  the  friend's  baptismal  name  may  be.  The 
priest  removes  from  the  loaf  with  his  spear-shaped  knife  a  triangulai 
particle,  which  he  places  on  the  chalice  (it  is  not  used  in  the  Com- 
munion), and  at  a  certain  point  of  the  service,  all  these  persons  are 
prayed  for,  by  name— the  Lord  being  aware  which  of  the  Ivans  or 
Maryas  is  intended.  After  the  service  the  loaf  is  returned  to  the 
owner,  who  carries  it  home,  and  (when  possible)  gives  it  to  the  person 
who  has  been  prayed  for.  It  is  the  custom  for  pilgrims  to  the  various 
shrines  to  bring  back  loaves  of  this  sort  to  their  friends,  and  these  are 
highly  prized.  At  some  of  the  famous  monasteries,  instead  of  the  cus- 
tomary imprintof  a  cross  and  the  Greek  letters  meaning  "Jesus  Christ 
the  Conqueror,"  which  are  used  on  the  loaves  for  the  Communion, 
a  special  holy  bread  (prosfora)  is  prepared  for  this  purpose,  stamped 
with  the  Saint  or  Saints  for  which  the  locality  is  renowned.  In  the 
primitive  church,  the  worshippers  were  wont  to  bring  offerings  of 
bread,  wine,  oil  and  wheat,  for  the  requirements  of  the  service.  As 
long  as  the  congregations  were  not  numerous,  all  such  givers  were 

340 


THE  INN 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  everywhere  where 
devout  Russians  congregate,  his  gaunt  and 
aged  but  still  comely  and  sedate  face  was  to  be 
seen:  at  the  shrine  of  St.  Sergius,  and  on  the 
White  Shores,  and  in  the  Optin  Hermitage,  and 
in  distant  Valaam.^  He  went  everywhere.  .  .  . 
This  year  he  passed  you  in  the  ranks  of  the  count- 
less throng  which  marched  in  a  procession  of  the 
cross  behind  the  holy  picture  of  the  Birth-giver 
of  God  at  the  Korennaj^'a  Hermitage ;  ^  next  year 
you  would  find  him  sitting  with  his  wallet  on  his 
back,  along  with  other  pilgrims  on  the  porch  of 
St.  Nicholas  the  Wonder-Worker  in  Mtzensk. 
.  .  .  He  made  his  appearance  in  Moscow  nearly 
every  spring. 

From  place  to  place  he  trudged  with  his  quiet, 
unhurried  but  unceasing  stride— 't  is  said  that  he 
even  went  to  Jerusalem.  .  .  .  He  appeared  to  be 
perfectly  composed  and  happy,  and  many  per- 
sons talked  about  his  piety  and  humility,  espe- 

prayed  for  by  name.  When  members  became  so  numerous  that  this 
would  have  been  burdensome,  the  custom  was  instituted  of  praying 
for  the  Sovereign  and  his  family,  as  representatives  of  all  the  rest: 
and  this  last  custom  still  prevails,  mingled  (as  above  described)  with 
a  remnant  of  the  original  custom. — Translator. 

^  The  shrine  of  St.  Sergius  at  the  Troitzky  (Trinity)  monastery, 
forty  miles  from  Moscow.  The  Optin  Hermitage  in  TambofF  Govern- 
ment. "The  White  Shores" — the  famous  monasteries  of  Solovetzk, 
in  the  White  Sea,  and  at  Byelo-Ozero  (White  Lake),  south  of  Lake 
Onega.  Val^am,  an  island  in  Lake  Ladoga,  with  another  famous 
monastery.  —Translator. 

2  The  Korennaya  Hermitage  lies  about  sixteen  miles  northwest  of 
Kursk,  in  southern  Russia.  Mtzensk,  nearer  the  centre,  is  half-way 
between  Orel  and  Tula.— Translator. 

341 


THE  INN 

cially  those  people  who  had  chanced  to  converse 
with  him. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Naum's  aifairs  throve  ex- 
ceedingly. He  took  hold  briskly  and  under- 
standingly,  and,  as  the  saying  is,  went  to  the 
head  fast.  Everybody  in  the  neighbourhood 
knew  by  what  means  he  had  acquired  possession 
of  the  inn,  and  they  knew  also  that  Avdotya  had 
given  him  her  husband's  money;  no  one  liked 
Naum  because  of  his  cold  and  harsh  character. 
....  They  narrated  with  condemnation  con- 
cerning him  that  one  day  he  had  replied  to  Akim 
himself,  who  had  begged  alms  under  his  window, 
"  God  will  provide,"  and  had  brought  out  no- 
thing to  him;  but  all  agreed  that  no  more  lucky 
man  than  he  existed ;  his  grain  throve  better  than 
his  neighbours'  grain;  his  bees  swarmed  more 
abundantly;  even  his  hens  laid  more  eggs;  his 
cattle  never  fell  ill;  his  horses  never  went  lame. 
....  For  a  long  time  Avdotya  could  not  en- 
dure to  hear  his  name  (she  had  accepted  Lizaveta 
Prokhorovna's  offer,  and  had  again  entered  her 
service  in  the  capacity  of  head-seamstress)  ;  but 
eventually,  her  aversion  diminished  somewhat; 
't  was  said  that  want  forced  her  to  have  recourse 
to  him,  and  he  gave  her  a  hundred  rubles.  .  .  . 
We  shall  not  condemn  her  too  severely;  poverty 
will  break  any  one's  spirit,  and  the  sudden  revolu- 
tion in  her  life  had  aged  and  tamed  her  down 
greatly;  it  is  difficult  to  believe  how  quickly  she 

342 


THE  INN 

lost  her  good  looks,  how  she  grew  disheartened 
and  low-spirited.  .  .  . 

"And  how  did  it  all  end?  "—the  reader  will 
ask. 

Thus:  Naum,  after  having  conducted  his  busi- 
ness successfully  for  fifteen  years,  sold  his  inn 
on  profitable  terms  to  a  petty  burgher.  .  .  .  He 
never  would  have  parted  with  his  house  if  the 
following  apparently  insignificant  incident  had 
not  occurred :  two  mornings  in  succession  his  dog, 
as  it  sat  in  front  of  the  windows,  howled  in  a  pro- 
longed and  mournful  manner;  on  the  second  oc- 
casion he  went  out  into  the  street,  gazed  atten- 
tively at  the  howling  dog,  shook  his  head,  set 
off  for  the  town,  and  that  very  day  agreed  on  the 
price  with  a  petty  burgher,  who  had  long  been 
trying  to  purchase  his  inn.  ...  A  week  later  he 
departed  for  some  distant  place — out  of  the 
Government, — and  what  think  you?  that  very 
night  the  inn  was  burned  to  the  ground ;  not  even 
a  kennel  remained  intact,  and  Naum's  successor 
was  reduced  to  beggary.  The  reader  can  easily 
imagine  what  rumours  arose  in  the  neighbour- 
hood concerning  this  conflagration.  .  .  .  Evi- 
dently he  carried  his  "  luck  "  away  with  him,  all 
declared.  ...  It  is  reported  that  he  engaged 
in  the  grain  business,  and  became  very  wealthy. 
But  was  it  for  long?  Other  equally  firm  pillars 
have  fallen  prone,  and  sooner  or  later  a  bad  deed 
has  a  bad  ending. 

343 


THE  INN 

It  is  not  worth  while  to  say  much  about  Liza- 
veta  Prokhorovna:  she  is  ahve  to  this  day,  and 
as  often  happens  with  people  of  that  sort,  she  has 
not  changed  in  the  least;  she  has  not  even  aged 
much,  but  only  seems  to  have  grown  more  lean; 
moreover,  her  penuriousness  has  increased  to  an 
extreme  degree,  although  it  is  difficult  to  under- 
stand for  whom  she  is  always  hoarding,  since  she 
has  no  children,  and  is  related  to  no  one.  In  con- 
versation, she  frequently  alludes  to  Akim,  and 
avers  that  ever  since  she  discovered  all  his  fine 
qualities,  she  has  come  to  cherish  a  great  respect 
for  the  Russian  peasant.  Kirillovna  has  pur- 
chased her  freedom  from  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna 
for  a  considerable  sum  and  has  married,  for  love, 
some  fair-haired  young  butler  or  other,  at  whose 
hands  she  endures  bitter  torture;  Avdotya  is  liv- 
ing, as  of  yore,  in  the  woman's  wing  of  Lizaveta 
Prokhorovna's  house,  but  has  descended  several 
rungs  lower,  dresses  very  poorly,  almost  filthily, 
and  retains  not  a  trace  of  the  cityfied  affectations 
of  the  fashionable  maid,  or  the  habits  of  a  well- 
to-do  landlady.  .  .  .  No  one  takes  any  notice  of 
her,  and  she  herself  is  glad  that  they  do  not;  old 
Petrovitch  is  dead,  but  Akim  is  still  roving  on 
pilgrimages— and  God  alone  knows  how  much 
longer  he  is  destined  to  wander  I 


344 


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